


The Ironmonger's Heart

by Raven_Ehtar



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blacksmithing, FrostIron - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Ehtar/pseuds/Raven_Ehtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthony was the son of the greatest Smith known, and determined to make his own name more renown than his sire's. It's a dream that nearly came to an abrupt end when he was shot with one of his very own weapons. </p><p>He prayed to the Gods to save him, but he didn't expect the one who answered, nor what He would want in return...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthony is shot, makes a deal of questionable wisdom, and Loki gains an interesting memento.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, I’ve been hitting the Avengers area of the fandom world pretty hard. And there’ll be a lot more before we’re through.
> 
> But welcome, one and all to something a little out of the ordinary for me: an AU! I don’t usually deal with AU’s, either reading them or writing them, but I got the idea for this and had to write it out. …but I had to make it a little more complicated than that. So this is an Iron Man, Thor, and Norse mythology fusion AU. Basically we’re back in the time of Norse mythology and dealing with the Norse mythology version of characters (their histories, relationships to each other, personalities) with a few exceptions. Loki’s personality is a bit of a fusion between Marvel and mythology, and his design is pretty much all Marvel, and after some conversation with my Beta, Thor and Loki are brothers as they are in Marvel. And to this we add Tony Stark – a Norse version of him. :)
> 
> For anyone who wants some music to go with this:  
>  _Soul 4 Sale_ by Simon Curtis  
>  _Kingdom of Welcome Addiction_ by IAMX  
>  _Skilfingr_ by Adrian von Ziegler  
>  _Crann Na Beatha_ by Adrian von Ziegler  
>  _For the King_ by Adrian von Ziegler
> 
> Or there's the album on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/raven-ehtar/the-ironmonger-s-heart). (Not all tracks listed here included, due to 8tracks' limit of two tracks per artist.)

### Part I

* * *

_Many are the tales told of the Æsir, the gods and goddesses who reigned in Asgard. Many are the accounts of their lives and adventures, be they mournful or content, full of horror or brimming with joy. Fewer, perhaps, are the tales of common men, those who made their lives on Midgard, and whose gaze rarely lifted above putting meat on the table or fire in the hearth. Oft was better for the men and women of Midgard to stay well clear of the Æsir, their great wars and convoluted schemes, but that was not always possible. Many times the Æsir and mankind crossed paths, usually to the detriment of the man or woman involved._

_Once there was a man, a blacksmith by trade, who was so skilled in his craft that his name became renown throughout the Realm. Such was his skill that it was said he could spin the very light of moon and stars to the finest wire or chain, that he could fashion the strongest of axes from the scales of Jörmungandr himself, or the fleetest of arrows from a hawk’s hunting cry. Many fantastical artifacts were attributed to the Smith, and perhaps many were also exaggerated. Nevertheless, his work was the finest to be had, and his reputation well earned, if a little overly embellished. So great and wide spread that reputation was, that even the Æsir knew his name, as did the dwarfs in Svartálfaheimr. The Smith, in many regards, was fortunate to only catch their curiosity and not to inspire the jealousy of those proud craftsmen._

_The Smith was called on by many warriors and leaders of warriors, and praised on all sides for his work. So loud and universal were his accolades that none seemed to remember the Smith had a family, and in particular, a son._

_The Smith’s son was a clever lad, who had the forge very much in his blood. But while he possessed the talent of his father and learned much from him, the two did not get along. In truth the boy resented his father for the fame he gleaned, how he allowed it to take his attention away from his home and family. He had a child’s selfish nature to demand that all be for themselves, while not seeing the necessity of labor that takes away the attention of their parents. As he grew he learned how to kindle the fire and work the metal, and he learned well, but in truth he resented the Master Smith. So much so that he determined never to be satisfied until all acknowledged him as a greater craftsman than his sire._

_To accomplish this, the son planned to leave his father’s house, to travel to every land and learn all they would teach him. With his innate talent and their varied knowledge passed to him, he was sure anything taking shape under his hands would surpass what his father could craft._

_When the Great Smith heard of his son’s plan he became furious. Not for the intention to surpass him in craft – he well knew the reasons for that – but because he feared for his son’s safety. The roads were not without peril and the boy was young, trained to fashion weapons rather than to use them. But the son was determined to go, and after an argument that shook the rafters of the family home, the boy left, swearing to not return until his skills were at least as great as the Master’s._

_The Great Smith’s son’s travels were long and fraught with adventure and its fair share of mishaps, but he accomplished what he’d set out to do. He met with and learned from many blacksmiths of distant lands, some nearly as skilled as his father, and all presenting some unique talent or specialty at the forge. The son’s skill increased each day, his knowledge grew immensely, and his experience became varied and rich under so many tutors. It was not long before his own name came to be known, not attached to that of his father but as itself, and he swelled with pride at the fruits of his labors._

_When at last he felt he had achieved his promise, the son, now many years older and no longer a boy, travelled back to the town of his birth, to lay some of his finest creations at his father’s feet and determine who was the greater craftsman._

_However, when he arrived at his father’s shop, he found the forge dark and cold, the fires unlit, dust gathering on his father’s tools. In all the time he had been away and after all the dangers he’d faced, it had not been the son who had perished, but the Great Smith. Staying at home, it was he who had died while his son was away._

_When he learned his father’s fate the son fell to his knees and beat the earth. Twas not grief that shook him, but rage. In his death his father had escaped the challenge he would have put to him, to learn who was the greater craftsman. Indeed, by his death the Great Smith had achieved a kind of godhood, his superiority in the craft practically untouchable, even to his offspring. The son’s hopes of ever besting his sire in the eyes of his fellow man were practically extinguished._

_But the son held a fire in his breast that was unto the forge itself. He took his father’s house and workshop and tools as his birthright, and set about making himself into ten times the blacksmith his father had been. He delved deep into his knowledge, experimented with metal and alloy and design, the forge never once cooling for weeks or months in his fever. He discovered in his endless work that he had a particular vision and skill for weapons. His metals were the strongest of any and his designs the deadliest, so that any who came to face his handiwork were almost sure to perish._

_It was in this way the son came into his own fame, his skill sought out by many. His handiwork became known and feared on the fields of battle, his family line simultaneously praised and cursed._

_He cared not how his name was remembered, either as benevolent or evil, so long as it was remembered as greater than that of his father._

_The son’s reputation spread, and he became a wealthy man. The forge and workshop grew, was expanded upon, and he took on apprentices to do menial tasks and free himself for skilled work rather than to teach them, and became popular in his village. But despite his fame, wealth and reputation, he never took a wife. He was far too engrossed in his work and never intended to have a family; the forge was in his blood and it consumed him from rising light until dusk, and thence into his dreams._

_So it was a height of irony when one day a thief, in taking some precious thing from the Great Smith’s workshop, burst in on the son, and in his fear shot him through the breast with an arrow. As the thief fled and the son fell to the ground, gasping for life, he recognized that it was one of his own weapons, his own craftsmanship that had felled him._

_But the thief was no warrior, the arrow did not strike true and did not slay him, though it surely would not fail to without swift aid. Seeing his life ending ignominiously in his father’s old workshop, the son prayed to the gods, any of the gods, to save his life and in return he would serve them with his skill dedicatedly._

_The god who answered his prayer was Loki, the Trickster god._

_The Smith’s son was reluctant to make a deal with such a one as He, but feeling his life’s blood ebb away, he had little choice…_

* * *

Battle was something that had never truly been a part of his life. Not directly. He was in one of those few professions that allowed him to remain out of the fray and at the same time still have the respect of warriors. He had the so-called privilege to share beer with fighters without having to spill blood first. He was not a fighter, he merely provided the necessary tools. The swords, the axes, the armor…

The arrows. 

Another labored breath wracked its way through his frame. The sound terrified him as much as the pain, and the pain was beyond anything he had ever experienced. He was no stranger to pain, warrior or not. A blacksmith took the wounds of his profession: the burns, the knocks, the cuts, the occasional horse hoof; but this went beyond any of that. An arrow lodged in his chest, the shaft caught between his ribs, the barbed head somewhere in his lungs, all of it moving and tearing with every breath he took. But it was the sound that truly frightened him, that told him how certainly he was about to die.

It sounded much wetter than the breath that had come before it. His lungs were filling with blood, he was going to drown on the dry floor of his own shop. 

With an effort that Anthony found hard to believe, he managed to lift one arm and to fling it in the direction of the forge and, with a new surge of pain that made his vision go white specked with dancing black spots, dug his fingers into the packed soil and pulled. He dragged himself towards his forge, still hot from the day’s labor. It wasn’t far, only a dozen feet or so, but it seemed leagues away. 

It had been his father’s workshop when the old man had been alive, and Anthony had spent his earliest years in it. As a toddler he had run back and forth over the very floor he was now inching across. His small toes had helped pack down the earth, he had walked this particular path hundreds of times a day, and now he may gasp out his final breaths on it, his nose full of dust. Some might find it poetic, but Anthony felt cheated. To die on the same floor he had beaten down while running after his father as a child? Was that really all he had travelled in his life?

And to make matters all the worse, he was felled with one of his own arrows, fired from one of his own bows. Didn’t that just _reek_ of poetry?

Poetry could shove it.

It had been a slow day, but that was fine. Anthony rather liked the slow days, they gave him time to tinker, to design and to experiment. Traffic brought trade, but it was when he could be creative that he had the greatest joy. So he’d gone through the day, the crackle of fire and ringing of his hammer a cheerful accompaniment to the steady, constant patter of rain against the roof. Only occasional visitors interrupted him, and most of those were handled by his apprentices. As the day drew to a close and the two youngsters left for their own hearths Anthony began to close up for the night. First tidying the back of the shop, the forge, where all of the labor for the day took place, and then moving to the front, where a selection of items were on display for curious patrons, though most came knowing exactly what they wanted. 

It was then, walking from the back to the front, that he noticed he had a late visitor, one who had braved dark and damp to come. He had his back to Anthony, but he was thin and short, with a head full of waterlogged curls hanging around his ears. It was strange to receive someone so late in the evening, but not unheard of. Anthony gave it no thought. Nor did he notice how the lad held his right arm, nor how furtive he was, nor that he didn’t seem to have noticed Anthony at all.

Anthony called out a welcome to the boy, who whipped around in surprise, a look of guilty terror in his eyes. And then Anthony felt something hit him in the ribs, hard enough to make him stumble backwards. 

He didn’t know what was wrong at first, confusedly clutching his counter, trying to catch his breath that was suddenly labored and short. It wasn’t until the lad – a child, really – looked down from Anthony’s face to his chest, eyes wide as saucers that he thought to look down himself. 

And saw a short shaft of wood, fletched with eagle feathers, jutting out from his breast. 

The boy had fled, dropping the bow he’d shot Anthony with along the way and Anthony had collapsed to the ground, narrowly avoiding landing forward on the arrow shaft in the process. Who the boy had been he didn’t know. It didn’t seem entirely important, now. What was important was how many long, painful drags of his body it would take to get from the front of the shop to the back. It was how many breaths he would be able to draw in before he drowned in his own blood. It was the one battle he fought now against time – get to the forge before death claimed him. He’d tried calling out for help, of course, but it was late. All of his neighbors had long returned home, closed their doors, possibly even turned in to their beds. Even had there been anyone in the streets, the rain pouring down would have smothered his cries, and raising his voice had the nasty effect of making his vision dark around the edges and flames lick at his heart. He would not call out again, when all it did was bring death closer and brought no assistance flying. 

So he clawed his way across the floor, dirty and littered with carelessly dropped items, towards the forge. With no one to help him, Anthony knew the forge and its heat was his one chance at surviving. He may never have wielded a blade or axe or bow himself, but he knew war well enough to be familiar with the wounds, and to a certain extent how to treat them. He would have to remove the arrow, that was certain; it couldn’t stay in. But after its removal the open wound would have to be cauterized. For that he would need the forge, and the poker lying in the glowing coals. 

Dragging himself along his side, Anthony managed another few inches, a foot at most. When he gasped, he could taste the blood at the back of his throat, the heavy, metallic taste of copper and iron.

_‘The forge is in my blood,’_ Anthony thought, remembering one of his father’s favorite phrases. Then he scowled, shoving the memory of his father roughly away. _What the hell does that even mean?_ he thought furiously. _Stupid old man and his idiotic proverbs._

With an effort that made his muscled shoulders tremble as though he were eaten through with fever, another portion of the floor was crossed. Then another, and another. Each time less ground was covered, and each time it took more strength to achieve. 

Finally he had to stop. Just raising his hand, he no longer had the strength to do even that. He lay, on his side and impaled with one of his own arrows, gasping for air. 

It hurt to breathe. Who knew it could hurt just to breathe? It was something he had done all his life and never given even a passing thought, and it was agony. His very heartbeat – was the arrow lodged _in_ his heart? – was a steady, rhythmic pounding of pain, like the rise and fall of his hammer as he beat out the metal.

_Oh, the old man would love that, wouldn’t he?_ Anthony thought sluggishly. _My heart is the hammer that drives the blood of the forge through my veins. Bet you wish you’d thought of that, eh, you rank dead fool?_

He coughed, and blood sprayed as spasms wracked his body. A fine mist of red patterned the dusty floor, the legs of a stool, and a cloth left on the floor by one of his idiot apprentices. 

It was so hard to breathe now, to even hold his eyes open and stare at the bright red of his life splattered out in front of him. And what would be the point in trying to do either one, when he couldn’t even move, he wondered? Even if by some miracle he managed to drag his corpse over to the forge, what then? Removing the arrow and then cauterizing the wound had been his only idea, but that would mean shoving a red hot poker into his lungs, possibly into his heart. Even in his failing state Anthony could see that was a bad idea. He had already tried calling out for help, to no result, and if he couldn’t so much as crawl across his own floor there was no chance he could seek help from a neighbor. With his current position and given how much it was raining, he was in as much danger of drowning in a muddy puddle as he was his own blood. 

Anthony felt his muscles begin to slacken, as if from a long way off, and it didn’t really register why that was a very bad thing. His eyes unfocused and he felt a fresh jab of pain as his body rolled slightly, weight pressing into the shaft. He couldn’t care enough to even try rolling back, away from it. Blood dribbled freely from his lips now, the taste of iron thick on his tongue, coating his teeth. 

As his eyes, heavy as full casks, began drifting closed for what felt like the final time, all Anthony could think of was how he would be found the next morning, and what would be said. It would be his apprentices who found him, he was sure. They were lazy but they were good about being the first in to light the fires at least. They would be the ones to find him, and they would rush to bring the village healer – even if Anthony were blue with death and beyond all mortal aid. From there the news would spread fast and wide, the loss of the local blacksmith being an event of region-wide import. Tongues would wag over his demise, possibly for months. And they would say…

‘The Great Smith’s son is dead.’

Anthony’s eyes flew open.

That is what they would say, wasn’t it? His father was still better known than he was himself, despite the superior quality of his work. When they found Anthony dead on the floor – the floor of his _father’s_ forge – they would remember him as his father’s son, not for his skill. He hadn’t had enough time to truly perfect his art, to leave the mark on the world that would have overshadowed anything his father had done in his lifetime. 

Too late, now, and if history remembered him at all it would be in deference to his father’s lineage, not on his own merits. His work would be forgotten. 

_No,_ he thought, new strength rushing through his limbs. It wasn’t enough to allow him to rise, but it fought back the encroaching darkness. _No, I refuse to die now! Not! Now!_

Anthony had never been an overly pious man. He was more prone to trusting his own strength and ingenuity than that of any deity. But he prayed now. He poured that rush of energy that was holding death at bay into a supplication to the gods, any of the gods who would answer, to save him. Save him in return for whatever they desired of him, he would trade it up for more time to become the legend that would supplant his father.

It was with that prayer still on his lips, tasting of iron and death, that the dark came in on him again, faster than before. As he sank he wondered where his spirit was destined for in the afterlife, and if one spirit could choke another; in case he found his father waiting for him. 

Then… the sound of footfalls, slowly approaching him. 

More than halfway to leaving his body forever, Anthony frowned into the hard packed earth. Footfalls? Why would he hear footfalls, when he hadn’t even heard the door open? Who was it come to witness his final moments?

Somehow Anthony forced his eyes open. That, for how difficult it proved to be, was still easier than trying to convince his swimming vision to settle and focus. When it did he wasn’t inclined to believe what he was seeing. 

A pair of feet, very near to him, in very fine, very deep green slippers. Even as he was, Anthony knew that couldn’t be right. The slippers and the hem of the gown he could see – also a fine, dark green – were far too well made for any of the households of his village. These belonged to a highborn lady, not a farmer’s wife. What was more, they were perfectly clean and dry, not a speck of mud on them. That would be an impossible feat in their streets with the rain pouring down as it was, where mud sometimes came up to the knee. These slippers weren’t even so much as damp. 

Not knowing how he was doing so, Anthony’s gaze travelled up, following the flow of a fine woolen skirt edged and embroidered with silver thread. Whoever it was that stood over him, she was tall and somewhat slender, and wore a _smokkr_ held up with intricately designed _dvergar_ brooches, a delicate finger woven belt at her hips, and many shining necklaces at her throat. When Anthony’s eyes made it up to her face he was losing focus, his vision becoming bleary with the distance and the dark that crept into the room.

In the deceptive flickering of the forge’s dying fires, Anthony saw a woman who under normal circumstances would have made him stop and stare. What he had initially thought of as a slender frame he now wanted to call lean when combined with the sharp angularity of her features. High cheekbones, broad brow, a strong jaw, hers’ was a face that _would_ be obeyed, even in firelight. But she retained her femininity by her wide mouth, the overall delicacy of her face, and her long hair, black as a raven’s wing, held from her pale face by a wide green band also embroidered with silver thread. She stared down at him with dark eyes. 

If he thought that his predicament would unnerve her, then he was very gladly mistaken. Her expression showed not an ounce of surprise or fear at finding a man with an arrow embedded at his heart, more dead than alive, bleeding and gasping on the floor like a fish. If anything he thought her eyes revealed a certain curiosity, but not concern. 

Anthony’s breath rattled painfully as he forced more air into himself, tried to form words. The attempt reminded him why he had found it so much more preferable to just lay still.

“L… lady-“ he managed, then had to stop to cough up what felt like a pint of blood onto the floor. The slippers, somehow free of mud and moisture, were not impervious to that red stain. The Lady’s reaction to the soiling of her shoes was the same as finding a dying man – none. He tried again.

“Lady, pl-… please. Fetch- fetch the healer.” It wasn’t likely to do any good at this point – even with this new hope focusing him the world was becoming darker. But this woman, whoever she was, was like an answer to his prayers, and he wasn’t about to squander the chance, however remote it might be. 

The woman, her dark eyes shining, didn’t answer immediately, but rather stared down at him from her impressive height, her head tilted inquisitively. It was a strange response, layered atop already strange behavior, and Anthony began to feel apprehensive. How wrong was it to feel apprehensive about a Lady rescuer when he was dying?

“The gods have answered your prayers,” she replied at last, her voice surprisingly low. A half smile quirked her lips. “But an answer in itself is not always a good thing.”

It wasn’t what he expected at all, and his heart jolted. Which was unfortunate, as it triggered a fresh bout of coughing. Lights danced before his eyes and his breath was impossible to catch. As he felt his grip on consciousness slipping away from him, the woman sighed. 

“Stop dying. It’s irritating.” With that she waved her hand disdainfully, and suddenly he could breathe again. 

He could breathe, but the pain didn’t subside, nor did renewed strength rush through his limbs. But at least he could draw a breath without feeling as though he were drowning. Anthony did so; three long, deep breaths before he dissolved into exhausted pants. Taking in air still hurt and made the room swim before his eyes, so he tried to find a happy medium that would give him the most air with the shallowest of breaths. Lifting up his head, which felt so heavy, he stared up at the angular goddess and wondered which one she was. It was his first time seeing one that wasn’t an illustration or carving, so he didn’t feel too bothered that he couldn’t recognize her right away.

The goddess, whichever she was, was studying him as he studied her. Though it could be said that the interest showing on her face was very different from the kind of interest he felt. She was looking at him much the same way someone would look at an odd leaf or new kind of insect: thoroughly, not missing a detail, but with only a vague sense of connection. Whoever this goddess was, she felt little to no sympathy for Anthony’s plight, and may leave at any moment if her whim swayed her to do so. Unless he could convince her to stay, to save him. 

“As you see,” he gasped out, but did not cough. “I am at your mercy, my Lady, my life is in your hands. I am-“

“I know who you are,” the goddess interrupted, still staring at his face. It was hard not to get lost in the goddess’s eyes. They were incredibly dark, almost black, but with a gemstone shimmer of green flashing out of them.

“I have heard tell of you, Smith,” the goddess continued with a small smile. “The Great Smith’s son.”

Anthony hadn’t realized that he had felt a tiny lift of pride, knowing that a goddess, an _Æsir_ had actually heard of him until that pride collapsed in on itself. He was known by his father, as the son, even to them. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but the goddess was not fooled. Her smile widened, a sharp grin full of white teeth, and turned away to walk around the room, examining his tools and wares, speaking as she went. 

“The Ironmonger,” she said, skirts swishing as she walked. “A talented young man, skilled and strong… They say you can fashion weapons to rival the god’s own, though I have yet to see such myself.” Anthony had to turn his head to watch her as she walked around him, then paused to lift up and examine a small hammer he used for jewelry. “The little sapling, not only sprouting, but managing to grow in that shadow of the oak.”

She looked down at him, gemstone eyes shining at him mockingly. “What a tragedy, then, to be felled so ignominiously, eh?”

Anthony felt his face grow stormy, knowing he should keep his expression placid. He was a supplicant, depending on the goddess’s good humor and generosity to save him. Losing his temper could mean losing his life in the same instant. But some things he could not endure quietly. “Was it your intention to come here to mock me? My Lady,” he added.

The grin didn’t budge, in fact she spun in place, skirts billowing out around her blood spattered slippers, her necklaces rattling musically. She still held Anthony’s little hammer. “It is my intention to mock wherever I go. It is not always the purpose, but if the opportunity arises, one does not let it go to waste.”

“Charming,” the smith bit out, still fighting the pull towards unconsciousness. “Perhaps there’s another god willing to hear me that’s less prone to kicking a man when he’s down?”

The Lady seemed to give it some thought, idly letting the little hammer swing back and forth in her fingers like the pendulum of a clock. Anthony tried hard not to see the parallel between the swaying hammer and the inexorable passing of time – time he would very soon be out of, if he wasn’t already. “I sincerely doubt it,” she replied at last. “I do not think you will find any of the other Æsir are as kind as I am, particularly when it comes to little mankind and his mishaps.”

“A comforting thought.”

The grin widened again. The angular woman had a smile like a blade – sharp and dangerous, and oddly compelling. “Isn’t it? Now,” she pointed the hammer at Anthony, “what is it you have called me here for, Smith’s son, or did you call to the heavens for some company in your dying throes because the neighbors despise you?”

“I thought perhaps the bolt between my ribs might have been a clue.”

She shrugged, slim shoulders making her long hair sway. “One can never be sure with Midgardians. It might well have been a desire to have two shafts, rather than to have the one you already possess removed. …That _is_ your preference…?”

“Yes!”

“Mm,” the Lady nodded, studying Anthony’s wound carefully from a distance. “And you wish to survive the process, I assume.”

Anthony couldn’t draw a deep breath to calm himself down without sending daggers into his lungs, so he settled for gritting his teeth to stem the ill-advised comment that came to his lips. He’d been told he had a loose tongue, most especially when it came to figures in authority, probably stemming from his father and their stormy relationship. It had made some of his apprenticeships interesting, with impressive collections of bruises when he’d not curbed himself in time. In one case, it had earned him a hard week of walking on foot when the Master had thrown him out of the forge with nothing more than what he’d arrived with. The blisters had done little to teach Anthony anything other than it paid to invest in good cobblers. He still ran at the mouth when it came to speaking to anyone in a more advantageous position than himself. 

Apparently this extended even to the gods themselves. 

“That would be the best of possibilities, Lady.” The words came out nearly a growl, but was at least semi-polite. It was better than he thought he could manage. 

“Perhaps it only seems that way to one who has known so little,” the Lady commented drily. Putting the small hammer aside, she came close, until her stained slippers, now soaked through their bottoms with his gore, were inches from his face. With a complete disregard for her fine clothes, she came to her knees, her skirts pooling about her legs and onto the bloody floor, and leaned over Anthony, one hand hovering over his chest, long fingers outstretched. 

For a moment Anthony thought she intended to remove the arrow immediately, to tear it out of his chest with her bare hands, but she remained still, slender hand and fingers floating inches above his struggling body. When he looked into her face, hoping for some clue what the goddess was doing, her eyes were closed, a fine line appearing between her brows and her mouth pulled into a small, tight frown. Anthony remained as still as he was able, unsure what she was doing, and paid careful attention to his own body for any clues, for any telltale shifts within himself or feelings of repairs taking place. But nothing happened. Other than the steady hammering of his nerves courtesy of his heart and the wet burbling of his breath, there was nothing. 

When the goddess at last opened her eyes again she seemed… not quite subdued, Anthony decided, but there was a seriousness in her face that hadn’t been there before. She looked at him and every smart comment he had died in his mouth. 

“The wound is grave,” she said quietly. “But I believe not beyond my skills. I can remove the arrow, save your life, and to an extent even repair the damage that has been done.” With a single finger she touched the shaft of the arrow. Anthony could see she touched it with so little pressure that had it been against his skin he may not have even felt it. As it was, a new wave of agony rocked him. He grunted, biting back a yell. 

“But it will be painful. More painful,” she insisted at Anthony’s incredulous half-laugh, half-sob, “than it is now. What you would have to endure to survive will make what you are suffering right now seem a drop in the sea. And you will be awake for it all, I assure you.”

Anthony tried to imagine that much pain and failed utterly. If the goddess did what she said she could, then he would have no need to in any case. He would know. “But I would live?” he ground out, the taste of iron still heavy on his tongue. “I would… surpass my father?”

The sharp, dagger grin came back to the goddess’s lips. “Oh, yes. If that is your wish, little sapling, then you may supplant your sire. What is done with your life is entirely your choice.”

With a strength he didn’t realize he had anymore, Anthony lifted his hand and wrapped his fingers about the Lady’s wrist. He dared lay his hand on a goddess. In his pain and fear, Anthony did not perceive the disrespect – or danger – of such a gesture. All that registered, dimly, was how slender her wrist seemed, yet how at the same time he could feel the power and strength crackling through her. Her eyes flicked to his hand, then refocused on his face. “Goddess, _will_ you save me?”

Gemstone eyes stared at him for what felt like a small eternity, his life balanced on the whim of a nameless goddess who seemed changeable as a zephyr. It was a relief just to hear her speak again, so Anthony almost lost the meaning of her words. “That remains for you to decide, Smith. For there is a price for the saving of your life, and it’s your choice whether you are willing to pay.”

Of course there was a price. “What is it?” he asked bleakly. “If you want my firstborn – if I have any – you’ll have to search some wide countryside to find it. Though you could always take my apprentices,” he added offhandedly. “They’re both dummies, anyway.”

The goddess chuckled, a throaty sound. “I rather like you, Smith. Even staring your own mortality in the face you find the courage to joke. But no,” she tilted her head. “I do not demand children, either the fruit of your loins or of your instruction. I would demand something a little more dear to you.”

“And what might that be?”

A slow stretch of that dagger smile. “Your heart.”

In his chest, the abused organ stuttered painfully. For an instant his mind went blank as he tried to comprehend what had just been said. “What?”

“It’s a fair trade,” the green clad goddess purred, removing his hand from her wrist easily and spreading her fingers over the wound, ignoring the blood. He expected it to hurt, and for an instant it did, a shock of pain arcing around his ribs, but then a curious thing happened. A cooling, almost numbing sensation spread from the goddess’s palm, chasing away the agony and giving Anthony a moment of blessed relief, a moment that felt as though his entire universe wasn’t about to end. It was a taste, he realized, of what could be if he agreed to the Lady’s offer, her bargain. Life, the ceasing of pain – after a relatively short bout of unimaginable pain – the chance to continue his work. There were no guarantees that his life would prove to be all he wanted to become. It was only life that was offered… but compared to the alternative, could her really call the offer ‘only’ life?

Fingers spread over his blood soaked apron, trails of chill worked their way deeper into him, chasing away the firebrands of pain, reaching for the hammer in his breast. “I save your life,” she murmured to him, her words floating like ice crystals in Anthony’s confused mind. “And in return, I take your heart – remove it from you. It will belong to me, in all senses of ownership, and in its place I will leave a talisman to replace it.” She paused. “Truly, you lose nothing in the bargain. You keep your life, and instead of this frail organ you get something much stronger in its place. The poor thing is very damaged, and not only from the arrow that has rent it. It’d be a favor to relieve you of the messy thing.”

Anthony was hardly registering what was being said anymore. He knew he should be paying attention, that his life and possibly something even more important were hanging in the balance, but focus eluded him. He was too comfortable, and he was so tired… “Yes,” he croaked out. “Yes, take it. I accept the bargain as fair.”

The hand moved away, and fire shot through him. Anthony gasped, his eyes flying open again in shock. The goddess smiled down at him. Not a cruel smile, but neither was it one meant to comfort. “One last thing is required before you can accept, Ironmonger. One of those petty rules that must nevertheless be obeyed to legitimize the transaction. You must know to whom it is you give your heart in payment for your life. …Have you guessed my name yet, Smith?”

Anthony squinted at her face as the names of the goddesses reeled through his brain. He held each one against the Lady hovering over him, who dangled salvation before him like a bone to a dog, but none seemed to fit. None of them rang true. He shook his head silently, words finally failing him entirely. Since the returning of pain it only seemed ten times worse, and Anthony was so very tired. 

In the surly light of the dying forge fires, the grin of the goddess shone like a sliver of the moon, like the edge of a knife. Her green gemstone eyes glittered.

“I am Loki.”

Anthony stared. He knew he should be afraid, yet he couldn’t muster the energy to truly fear. Loki, the trickster god, had heard his prayer and deigned to answer. He, out of any of the Æsir, and had as good as said he was the only one who _would_. In the guise of a woman he had come and made an offer, a deal that involved taking his heart as payment… Anthony was not pious, but he knew the stories. One could hardly fail to know the tales of Asgard, of the Æsir and their doings, most particularly those of Odin, Thor and the Sly One. If he was here and offering this deal to Anthony, then there must be come hidden advantage for him. Anthony was no fool, he could plainly see the risks of tangling with an immortal trickster, knew that giving up his heart in ‘all the senses of ownership’ was a fool’s path, and no good could come from it…

But neither was he willing to die. He saw all the reasons to refuse this offer, thanked whatever rule it was that made it so he had to know the identity of his benefactor before he could accept, but to refuse was to die. Whatever it was Loki had done thus far to keep him alive and awake was already wearing off, and if he let it slip away entirely then Anthony would founder within a handful of minutes. Perhaps less.

He would not die. He would not let his father best him by some thief’s ill aimed arrow. 

He would take the bargain. Let Loki take his damaged heart and much good may it do him.

Anthony gritted his teeth, glared up at the god / goddess who watched him with the alert patience of a hawk. “I… _accept_.”

Loki smiled, and then the world became nothing but fiery agony.

* * *

It seemed weeks had passed before the pain finally subsided, though it did not die away completely. Rather it became a constant, dull ache that throbbed all along his nerves, centering around his chest. The center of his chest, where once there had been an arrow, but now there was not. 

Where once there had been a heart, and now there was not. 

Anthony tried not to think about it. He tried to not remember what his heart had looked like as it was lifted out of his body, cradled gently in long, slender fingers dripping with his blood, so thick it was almost black. He tried to block out the way it had continued to beat in Loki’s hold, a live, fluttering thing being stolen away from him, seeming to glow with a deep red light, especially bright along the gash left by the arrow. The bloodstained god put it away in a little box of silver and iron and locked it securely. The box and the key disappeared almost instantly into Loki’s clothing, he knew not how, and it was almost a relief to no longer see the thing in the open air, a piece of him but no longer a part of him. 

But then, even watching his own heart being removed and the unbelievable pain that accompanied it, was as nothing to what followed. The father of lies did not lead him astray for that, and Anthony came to know the depths of that particular ocean. 

Now…

The blacksmith looked down hesitatingly, the first time he had dared to since the ordeal had begun. He knew that no gaping wound would greet his eyes. He had watched as the Lady Loki had set inside him some thing made of metal and stone, but he was not so prepared for what _did_ meet his gaze. 

Perfectly round and set in the center of his muscled chest, was the object, the ‘talisman’ set in place by Loki. He had expected it to reside within him as his heart had done, hidden and unknown, but no. Like a small plate set in his sternum, it lay level with his skin. Skin which appeared whole, though slightly bruised where it came into contact with the talisman. As for the talisman itself…

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, either in his travels or in the designs he set down himself. Round, slightly smaller than his palm, the first inch of its edge was metallic, silver at a blurry guess, and worked with complex, intricate patterns. It was difficult to see in the poor light of embers and a watery, rising sun, but he thought he could make out some script woven into the design. A spell? For now the interest of the edge was overshadowed by the talisman’s center, which at first glance was stone or crystal, cut flat to the shape of the metal that encircled it. 

Anthony had watched as the talisman had been put into him, had seen it before it had become a part of him. It had been to his eyes nothing but a large chunk of some fine gem. Now the center of the talisman glowed with a life of its own, it color shifting as his eyes moved across it, now blue, now green. He peered at the strange stone as closely as he could, curling on himself awkwardly in attempt to see. It was a strange gem, more like quartz in that he seemed able to see _into_ it, and at its glowing center was a floating, shifting cloud, like mist or fog caught within. 

Carefully, Anthony touched it with an unsteady hand. He’d expected it to be warm, like a brand or ember that burned as it gave light, but it was not. It wasn’t even warm; it was cooler than his skin, almost frigid. 

Shivering, though not with cold, Anthony took his hand away, letting it fall to the ground with a thump. It was beginning to sink in, the weight of what he had done. His heart belonged to Loki, and in its place was some foreign, magical thing that somehow kept him alive. How it was doing so he did not know. He could feel, all too well, his blood still pulsing through his veins, but where his heart had once been was strangely, eerily still. He was literally heartless, kept alive by a trinket of Loki.

In the back of Anthony’s mind, he wondered if the talisman was also a mark of the god, some kind of stamp that marked Anthony as his. 

“Adjusting to your new heart?”

Anthony looked up to see Loki, still feminine and in bloodied skirts, wiping her hands on a discarded forge cloth, though to say they were coming clean would be too optimistic. She… he… was watching him with a mixed expression, though all Anthony could discern for certain was humor by the slight quirking of her lips. 

The blacksmith scowled and turned his head away, shifting himself a little higher on the wall he’d been propped against towards the end of his ‘operation.’ If he could, he would have stood and walked away, but he doubted his legs had the strength. 

“Oh, now, let’s not be like that, Smith,” Loki chided, nothing but humor in her voice now. “We’ve accomplished a feat never before seen by Æsir or men, which is by no stretch a mean feat. And you will live for many years, forging your pretty little devices of death. Truly: _be proud_.”

Anthony closed his eyes and sighed – blessedly pain free, yes. But the god’s words stung him like barbs. He needed sleep, he needed solitude to just _think_. “I am too tired to be anything,” he replied, barely more than a whisper. “Leave me.”

There was a pause. Possibly it was shocked, possibly only thoughtful, Anthony didn’t bother to look up and see. Even at the risk of offending a god, he was just too tired. 

“Of course,” came the eventual reply, much closer than he had expected. And the voice only came nearer as it continued, the soft sound of footfalls and swishing skirts an odd accompaniment. “You need time to rest, to adjust to this new arrangement. As you may already suspect, it involves more than the simple relocation of a damaged organ. For who can say what power a man may have when they own another’s heart?”

Anthony opened his eyes, and discovered the god much closer still than he had thought. Loki was crouched down beside him, her nose almost brushing his, dagger grin in place, green eyes so dark they were nearly black staring into the back of his head. “And your heart is _mine_ now, blacksmith. And I am no man.”

Lips were suddenly pressing against his, soft as petals but hungry and demanding. Anthony froze in place, and while he remained thus motionless, fingers that were strong as they were slender wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him forward. Anthony would have it as his pain and trauma that kept him still, with perhaps a small amount of fear, and his absolute exhaustion that allowed his eyes to slip closed, and _not_ enjoyment found in the unexpected caress. Whatever the reason, close they did, and he did no struggle. It wasn’t until he was able to pull away again – when he was released – that he saw what change had taken place. 

It took a moment to notice, in the dark and slightly dazed, but when he did it must have shown in his face, for Loki’s grin widened to his ears. 

And it was most certainly _his_ ears.

The eyes and the smile, they had not changed in the least. They remained the same and told Anthony that this was indeed the same person, though not the same gender. His face was as smooth as it had been as a female, and his features were still angular, but more so, no longer softened by the gentle curves at cheek and jaw. His figure, too, was leaner, no longer feminine but purely angular, narrow at hips and waist. Even his clothes had changed. No longer a gown and _smokkr_ , Loki wore a finely fitted wool _kyrtill_ edged with silk and fitted britches tucked into calf high boots. 

The trickster god laughed softly in Anthony’s face, his breath fluttering over his mouth, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. Anthony was too bewildered to protest or pull away. 

“Until we meet again, Smith,” Loki said, his voice a little deeper than before, but just as smooth. 

And then… he was gone. And Anthony was left alone on the floor of his forge, propped against one wall, the eerie glow of the talisman his only company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys would not _believe_ the amount of research that I’ve done on this thing already, and for the smallest of details. I’m picky. Anyway, here’s some notes:
> 
> Tony’s Name: I thought about changing Tony’s name to something a bit more time appropriate… but no. Tony is Tony.  
>  **EDIT:** Tony _used_ to be Tony, now he's Anthony. Because it fits better in my brain.
> 
> Smokkr: A smokkr is basically an apron dress, and part of a woman’s typical garb at the time. There’s some debate as to whether or not ‘smokkr’ is a period term or not, but I wanted to have something else to call it than ‘apron dress.’ So, 100% accurate or not, that’s what we’re using. 
> 
> Dvergar: ‘Dvergar’ literally means ‘dwarf,’ and in this case is referring to the big tortoise brooches used to hold up a smokkr. Usually they’re just called tortoise brooches… but I liked the name dvergar brooches that I found while researching period garb, so used it here.
> 
> Kyrtill: A kyrtill, as everyone could probably tell from context, is the outer tunic worn by the men of the time. It looks very simple, just like a long-sleeved shirt with a very long, almost dress-like body, but it’s actually quite complicated to make, and depending on a man’s social status there are some interesting differences in make and fabrics. For example, the higher a man’s status, the longer the ‘skirt’, as this showed they could afford superfluous fabric. Trims were usually restricted to braids, but silk could also be used – but this would have been something only the wealthiest could afford. 
> 
> If you couldn’t tell, yes, I did a huge amount of research on the costumes of the time. And I rather enjoyed it, too. (Sometimes I really miss being in the SCA.) For future chapters I’m expecting research on everything from food, to ye olde metallurgy, to politics. 
> 
> That being said, I’m just going to point out something right now: **There are going to be historical inaccuracies.** I’ve done enough research to know that I’m going to mess things up. I know enough to know I don’t know enough, if that makes sense. So rather than trying to keep as close to the real-world as possible – because that would fail horribly – we’re going to say that we are in a place that is veeeery close to our own world… but it isn’t. There are parallels and similarities that would boggle the mind, but we’re not on Earth. For the sake of my own deteriorating sanity. (I’ll still be keeping as close as possible, but I’m taking this scapegoat now while I can so I’m not banging my head against the wall for snarls in the timeline, geography, customs, etc.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthony goes to a faire, meets an important person, and comes home to a nasty surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you guys seen Vikings on the History Channel yet? It’s awesome. I totally nerded out over it for all kinds of good reasons, not the least of which being that it has the exact kind of feel I was going for in this fic. If you haven’t seen it yet, _do_.
> 
> I know, it’s been a long time since I put the first chapter up, but you know. Life. Plus this may be the most research intensive project that I’ve given myself to date. If you’ve seen what I’ve written in the past, you’ll know what that means. My library has increased dramatically and the sheer amount of paper sacrificed for notes is boggling. So there will be a lot of notes for the end of this chapter. Prepare thyselves.
> 
> Also a friendly reminder before we begin: Historical inaccuracies will abound, despite the amount of research going into this monster. Those of you who are history buffs and will be able to spot the shameless mix of timelines, geography, cultures, place names and even regional personal names… you’ll probably incredibly annoyed by this story. I’m still standing by my ‘this is not Earth, but boy howdy it sure does look like it’ scapegoat, but I _am_ trying to keep the uncanny valley effect to a minimum. Still, pinning everything down in this particular time in history is hard. Along with the usual troubles of so much of it being cobbled together from records written hundreds of years after the fact by people whose views were skewed by politics, culture or religion, what we take as ‘official’ right now is changing all the time. So sorry, not 100% accurate. If you read this and use what you find to take a history test, I take no responsibility for the ‘F’ you get for it. You silly person, you.
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> Music:  
>  _If I Had a Heart_ by Fever Ray  
>  _Iron_ by Woodkid  
>  _Ingwar_ by Wardruna  
>  _Thistle and Weeds_ by Mumford  & Sons  
>  _The Blacksmith_ by Steeleye Span  
>  _Crows in the Cornfield : Thunderstorm and Rain_ by Brad McBride

### Part II

* * *

_The Ironmonger was saved at the price of his still beating heart, paid to Loki the Trickster. His friends and neighbors, who knew not how he survived such a mortal blow, wondered aloud what God or magic it was saved him. Even the Seer, an ancient woman whose back was bent with years and whose head rattled with the chatter of the Æsir, could not say. On the Ironmonger, the Gods were all silent._

_As the Ironmonger recovered, his neighbors put their questions to him, but he gave them no satisfactory answer. He turned aside their prying with ill humor and scoffing, sarcastic words. He berated his apprentices, though they never asked him after the first, and with acidic abuse sent them to their tasks. He covered the talisman and its glow with thick shirts and leather aprons so none could see it; he knew what sort of welcome it would receive should any learn whose hand it was placed it there. And the Ironmonger, once able to stand, dove into his craft, his steadfast escape from worry and doubt._

_But what the Ironmonger found was that his work no longer provided a haven for him. Every blade, every axe, every edge that took shape in his hands reminded him of the death that had come so close, and pain would flare to life in his breast, ghostly still with no heart to beat. His weapons were true works of art, sure to slay all against whom they were turned._

_Perhaps too well._

_He found himself wondering for the first time if his weapons might not be used against those too poorly suited to defend themselves, if they might be used as tools for murder as well as for battle. He was not a man of violence, despite the beautiful weapons he made and the reputations that were made with them. Always he had thought of his craft, not the blood that would flow in its wake._

_For the first time, the Ironmonger felt doubt. His work could give him no peace._

_He was in sore need of respite. In the forge with no beat of his heart to match the rise and fall of his hammer, and especially in the still silence of the night, he was free to wonder what it was the Gods had in store for him._

_One, in particular._

* * *

Anthony awoke, well before dawn, and was confused for a moment why it was that he could see in a room that should have been pitch dark. The bewilderment did not last long, as the cobwebs cleared away and vague impressions left by dreams unremembered evaporated, and he remembered. 

He remembered the freckled boy in his shop, the guilty look on his face. With a clarity that made him ill, he remembered the scrape of the arrowhead against his ribs, the wet sound of his breath as his lungs filled with blood and his heart drowned. As in a dream, he remembered the desperate prayer he’d offered the Gods, and which it was who had answered. He well recalled the sea dark eyes with their gemstone green glimmers, the ice cold touch that had stolen the pain away. 

He remembered the deal that had been struck, and what he had given for it. His heart for his life, and a strange memento now embedded in his chest.

Anthony looked down at himself, lying flat in his cot. Sometime during the night he had tossed aside his blankets. The nights were growing warmer, and his rooms were even more so than in homes not attached to the smithy.

When he had given his heart to Loki, it had been replaced with something else. Something better according to the Trickster. A talisman made of metal and magic and stone, there to keep him alive when Loki locked his real heart away in a box. It did indeed keep him alive, but it did not beat. In the fortnight since receiving it, Anthony was still not accustomed or comfortable with that. But while there was no beat, there was light. The stone in its center, which swirled with a green, blue and white dance of color, also glowed steadily. Uncovered by either shirt or blanket, it was the talisman that made the room clearly visible without sun or candle. 

Like the absence of a heartbeat, it was something he was not used to, but he was able to ignore it more easily. Light shirts provided no shielding for it, however, and untied necks allowed it to peek over the collar. He needed heavier cloth to smother its light, or his smithy’s apron. Come summer that would be a harder habit to keep up. 

Still sleep heavy, and more than a little hesitant to touch the foreign thing embedded in his flesh, Anthony ran his fingers across the stone in the center. It was cold against his fingers, though it didn’t feel cold as it sat in his lungs, its surface curiously smooth. It made Anthony think of a small slab of ice, its face grown damp as it slowly melted. But it was only an impression. There was no moisture to the talisman, only the cold and smoothness of it that was as ice. 

Another strange property of the talisman – as though there were anything about it that was _not_ strange – the shifting mist caught in the stone’s center moved when he touched it. It did so every time Anthony brushed the thing with his fingers. It was responding to him in some way, though he could not determine how or why. It did not retreat, nor did it seem to mirror him for speed or direction when he had chosen to experiment a little.

It was unsettling to have something so much a part of him, something so strange, which he depended upon to keep him alive, and to have no idea how it worked or what else it might be doing as it nestled where once his heart had been. He didn’t like having to depend so much upon a thing he did not understand. Neither had he really understood his own heart, it was true, but he felt more confident that his heart wouldn’t turn on him. Minute by minute his continued existence depended upon a contrivance of Loki, the Mischievous One. 

What would a God want with a mortal man’s heart anyway…?

Anthony snatched away his fingers. Best to get the thing covered so he could forget it again for a few hours.

He threw his body into a more upright position, his bare feet touching floorboards just as the sounds of his idiot apprentices in the next room came to him. Always prompt in arriving at the forge, the two boys had taken to sleeping on the floor in the workshop. It was a habit that Anthony didn’t discourage. In winter when the nights were dangerously bitter, the boys slept every night practically atop the forge. Since the streams had begun to run again, they had returned to their own homes, but had abruptly returned to their winter habit. They had done so, without asking his permission, the same day they had found him passed out on the floor of the forge, the ground slicked with his blood. When asked, they used the excuse of the approaching faire in Kaupang, and the amount of work they would have to do to prepare for it for their change in routine.

Anthony was rather touched at this show of protectiveness, and impressed with their bravery. They were young and intended to become craftsmen, but the warrior blood of their ancestors shone through. 

They were still dummies, though, with a penchant for dropping, breaking or lighting things on fire, and Anthony still berated them soundly for it all. 

Using the strange blue-green light of the talisman, Anthony found and shrugged into a woolen tunic. Abruptly he was plunged into blackness, and he felt he could relax again. Only the barest of glows could be seen through the weave, as soon as there was any sort of external light it would disappear entirely. If he could ignore the stillness in his breast, he could pretend for a while that he was normal. Darkness held its dangers, but it was comforting. 

Moving carefully, Anthony moved out to the forge to greet his idiot apprentices, fetch them all a bite to eat, and begin another long day of preparations.

* * *

“Come along, now, I want to be on my way before the moon rises! At the rate you two are moving the raiding season will be finished up before I can get out of sight of my own bloody door! Appi! If you drop one more box I will dry you for this winter’s stores, do you understand? Leave the heavier boxes to your brother, you thick-skulled idiot!”

Anthony blew out a breath and turned away from the sight of his apprentices loading the cart with wares. Gods knew the two of them meant well – he doubted if either of them were even _capable_ of an unkind thought – but it didn’t stop them from being complete dummies, and responsible for almost more damage than not, all done in their well-meaning but inept bumbling. They had both improved since their family had apprenticed them to him, but that wasn’t saying too much. It was an improvement that they could now each light a fire in the hearth and forge without Anthony living in mortal dread that the rest of his home would be turned to a cinder as well. He considered it an improvement that he could trust them to not spill their evening meals to the floor in their eagerness to get it into their mouths. They were allotted the less life threatening tasks of the forge, but it would be some time before he trusted either of them with hammer and tongs. 

Still, he reflected as he gathered up what last minute pieces caught his eye in the shop, they were an odd sort of comfort. They were good boys, Appi and Bergi, and they had done well, proved their loyalty when they had found him in the gray dawn on the floor of the forge. Even their idiotic mistakes gave Anthony a sense of constancy, in a twisted way. He was very organized as a rule, but the two brother apprentices were chaos on legs. If he were forced to find a positive in that, it would be that they kept him from becoming stagnant. 

And he enjoyed berating them. It was stress relieving to have someone to legitimately shout at. The boys never took his abuse to heart, and scurried to follow the instructions buried in his insults and empty threats. 

Anthony walked back out into the watery sunlight, breathed deep the cool air and surveyed the sight before him. 

Askival was not a very large village, this place his father had chosen to call home years ago. Just a little cluster of homes and muddy roads set near the base of the mountains. There was little in the way of farmland here, and what there was, was scattered, distanced from each other and the center of the village. The little arable soil available was precious, and anyone who had the honor and fortune of owning farmland was a richer family for it. A more easily accessible food source by far was the sea, and their village butted up against a sizable inlet, sheltered from the worst storms by the surrounding peaks. Even now, Anthony could see several small ships out on the waves, casting nets. 

Since the majority of the village was in the narrow space between mountain and sea, more than half of the homes were placed along the increasingly steep hills, where towards its highest and farthest edge one could almost see the roof of their neighbor’s home from their front door. Anthony’s home was not placed so high up the slope, but close. It was the worst land for everything save defense, having no soil to grow so much as a turnip plant, nowhere to house livestock, and far away from the shore. As a blacksmith, Anthony’s father had needed none of those things save for the water, which was still very possible to reach, and had taken the poor land, making it a home for his family.

In the past couple of weeks the rain had been a constant companion, light but never ceasing. It had turned the hard packed roads treacherous with mud, streamlets running in the wheel ruts downhill through the village to join with the sea. 

Anthony wrinkled his nose. It was another reason why the higher homes were so little desired, but at the same time easier to defend. In spring and fall when the rains began the roads were slick with water and mud, making travel up or down the hills tricky at best, and exhausting. In winter, when the snows blew and ice sheeted the footpaths, then it became outright dangerous to leave one’s door. Though, if there was one advantage to the higher placement, it was that those homes enjoyed the cover of trees. Not a true forest so close to the village, but there were enough to make the nights less biting than for those who faced the wind coming directly off of the sea. 

It was a small village, but it had grown in the last few years. Anthony suspected that was due in large part to his father. He had brought the attention of the outside world to this little sheltered collection of huts, and many came to see the honored Smith and his work in person. Some chose to stay. Not all, of course. There wasn’t enough here to entice anyone who wasn’t willing to work hard to eke out their living. But there were some who came, and who saw their sheltered harbor and the opportunity it promised as a place to build ships. It was far and sheltered from the other harbors, and though Askival’s slopes had little enough to offer, good timber was not far off in the finding. 

And there was the legendary Smith in residence, of course. Living so close would offer many opportunities for unsolicited but welcome kindnesses, which would be remembered later when the time came to bargain for his coveted metalwork. So Askival had gained more warriors, summer raiders and families, and Anthony’s father gained a great many friends who provided his family with those small comforts that were sometimes hard to come by when so out of the way.

No doubt Anthony’s father had a great deal to do with the village’s growth, but even now, slowly, it grew one family at a time. 

Anthony shook himself, swallowed back the familiar resentment rising in his throat. Now was no time to spare thought for the dead, now was the time for business. 

Appi and Bergi, ever eager and perpetually ill-equipped to do all that they could, were loading a small cart, hitched to a sturdy, sure footed pony with boxes and long packages wrapped in oiled hides. When the loading was done then everything would have to be battened down securely, as the road between Askival and Kaupang was far from smooth. Then, after making certain that nothing was missing or would come loose, including his own small satchel of personal items, it would all be covered over with a much larger oiled tarp to keep out the rain and it too secured in place. 

Except that his two dummies seemed at a complete loss as to what should go in the cart and what was to stay unless Anthony was shouting at them the whole time. It was the normal procedure for such things, but you would think they would learn a _little_ steadiness in their years as apprentices. Anthony wondered if they could be doing it deliberately. 

He was just getting ready to flay them with another bout of colorful curses, drawing a long breath for just that, when a much softer, slightly amused voice cut him off. 

“Well, well. The sun has been in the sky for three hours and you’re three quarters of the way packed already. You must have been riding them hard, Anthony.”

Anthony looked around, startled by the voice coming from the corner of his house – though naturally enough, his heart did not leap. When he saw who it was, he relaxed. 

“Ranka! What are you doing here?”

Ranka, a woman only a few years younger than himself, wrinkled her freckled nose at him, blue eyes narrowing accusatorily. “You didn’t honestly think you were going to make it out of this town without a leave taking, did you? What kind of neighbor would I be?”

“Much as my other neighbors,” Anthony pointed out, waving to indicate the tiny yard conspicuously empty of any wishing him farewell. 

“Exactly so. Unacceptable.” Ranka walked around until she stood near Anthony’s side, and leaned against one of the hitching posts he kept for client’s horses that needing shoeing. Tall and lean of body, Ranka was clothed this morning in a warm, work stained _smokkr_ , woolen leggings wrapped about her calves and sturdy boots. Like Anthony, she was also wearing a cloak to keep out the rain, the hood drawn up over her fair hair, which was braided and held back from her face. She wore a few necklaces, including one that Anthony had made himself. At one hip a small working knife hung comfortably on her belt, as well as the keys to her and her husband’s home, jingling with each step. Slung over one shoulder and across her waist was a worn satchel, the one she normally used for market days. 

“Though I do think you’ve done yourself no favors,” she said, looking around. “Did you even tell anyone that you were leaving? You might have gotten a bigger send off.”

Anthony shrugged, watching his apprentices carefully as they continued to load the cart, which they seemed to be doing with a touch more care now that a pretty woman was watching them. “It’s an annual faire, and the largest one around into the bargain. It’s generally accepted that I go every year, without having to announce my intentions. If everyone has simply _forgotten_ about it…” he shrugged again.

“Mmm. You make a terrible liar, Smith,” was Ranka’s dry reply. “Fortunate, then, your metal rings a truer note.”

Anthony smiled, the first time he had done so that morning, and the first time in… too long. Too many days. Ranka was good at making him smile. She wasn’t the least intimidated by him, his reputation or that of his father, and called him out on a lot of his bullshit. But unlike others who could boast the same, she did so without the hate and disgust his character seemed to bring out once the advantages of skill and ancestry were disregarded. It was refreshing. 

“That reminds me, actually. How is Sölvi finding the new ploughshare?”

“You ask as you prepare to be gone for weeks on end, and could do nothing about it now even if the plough had broken the moment it was put to earth?”

“I could always have the boys do the repairs while I’m away.”

“When did I earn your hate, Anthony?”

That earned a chuckle. “ _Has_ it cracked in two?”

Ranka favored him with a smile, and for a moment Anthony felt slightly warmer. “Far from it,” she said. “It cuts through the earth like a prow through water. We haven’t even buckled on any stones. I think the plough just cuts _through_ them.” She leveled Anthony with a look. “You shouldn’t use fine ore on a plough, when you should be making one of your finer creations with it.”

Anthony waved away the protest. “It’s my metal. I’ll use it for what I want, thank you. And what could be more worthy a fate than turning an empty patch of land to a garden?” Ranka smiled, a small blush rising, until Anthony continued. “Besides, it’s not the ore that makes that plough special, but in the tempering. You see, with just a few—“

But Ranka was tossing a rock, which flew harmlessly wide of its target. “Oh, shut up, you! Make a girl feel special and then kick it all away, why don’t you!”

Anthony pretended to dodge, chuckling.

Ranka was the one neighbor in the entire village who he could honestly say that he liked, rather than just tolerated. And in truth she wasn’t a ‘neighbor’ in the strictest sense. She only qualified at all because it was possible to walk from one of their homes to the other and back again in a day. Her home was very near the water, on the opposite side of the inlet. Ranka’s family was one of those very fortunate ones to have a small farm on their land, as well as a little livestock. As such holdings in Askival went, it was a very good one, and more than a couple coveted it greatly. 

It had been on the edge of Ranka’s land that Anthony had first met her, quite some years ago now. If he thought about it, Anthony could still recall the day clearly.

It had been summer, the middle of a long, hot and particularly humid one. Seeking escape from his forge – which could not have been hotter had Surt himself been his guest – Anthony had closed it up and gone out. That had been before his apprentices had come to him, but he hadn’t cared in the least. Better to lose a little business than to melt into the floor, he’d reasoned.

So he had gone down the slopes to the waterside, where it was notably cooler, and because he had no desire to meet anyone, Anthony had followed the beach around the inlet to put some distance between himself and the bulk of the village. He hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings, and he wouldn’t have recognized on whose land he was even if he had. His domain was the workshop, and it was only unhappy circumstance that had him wandering. Unwittingly, then, Anthony strode onto the land cared for by Ranka’s family. 

By then the beach had lost much of its sandiness, and become a shelf, where the turf simply cut away to a one to four foot ‘cliff’ that dropped into the water. The trees were thicker here, providing shade and delicious coolness, the line between land and sea winding like a serpent. 

Anthony came upon her, quite unexpectedly, as she was spear fishing in the shallows. Her skirts had been hitched around her knees, her feet bare, and her sleeves rolled past the elbows. Still with these precautions, the folded edges of her clothes were dark with moisture, and drops slid down her exposed skin, drawing his eye. Her face had been set in a faint scowl of concentration, eyes scanning the water intently for prey. Over her back was the basket for caught fish – half full, it had been a fortunate day – and the long pole with its sharpened tip hovered just over the surface of the water, ready to strike.

At Anthony’s sudden appearance, she’d thrown it at him. It had set the tone for their entire relationship.

Anthony became aware that the silence, punctuated by the rain and the sounds of his apprentices loading up the dismantled pieces that would become his stand at the faire, had taken on an expectant quality. Shaking off the last vestiges of memory, he glanced over at Ranka. She was staring at him with the kind of expression Anthony had learned to be wary of.

She didn’t wait long to voice what was on her mind once she saw she had his attention. “Are you sure you’re ready for such a long trip, Anthony? I know you keep telling me that you’re fine,” she continued hurriedly when Anthony pulled a face. “But really, this isn’t something you should just bully through. This is your life, and a single faire isn’t important enough to pay it for.”

Anthony sighed quietly. “It’s not just a faire, Ranka. This is the faire of the preseason, of the entire year, and important enough in its own right to pay quite a portion of my life for. You know how much exposure a vendor gets there, how much business, how much reputation. And more to the point,” Anthony added, “there’s word that Jarl Oddbjörn will be there. He controls the bulk of the raiding ships, by his word my name could rise in a moment or be buried forever.”

Ranka frowned at him, unmoved. “And if your wound reopens on the road and you weaken and die, an unsung meal for crows, what then?”

Anthony had to fight the urge to finger the talisman in his chest self-consciously through his shirt. It was generally known that Anthony had been attacked and gravely wounded in his own forge. The evidence had been too plain, he’d had no chance to hide any of it before Appi and Bergi had found him, the most dramatic of which being the copious amounts of blood covering the floor, from the front counter to near the forge in the workshop. But while the entire village knew Anthony had been injured, and severely enough to nearly kill him, no one was certain how he had been injured, and Anthony intended to keep it that way. If it was known that he’d been shot through the heart with an arrow, it would be very hard to explain how he had survived. He’d refused the interference of the healer, and _all_ visitors save the boys until he’d regained enough strength to at least stand on his own feet and present a strong front. 

No one knew he’d been shot, that the Trickster had saved him, and that he no longer possessed a heart. No one knew how it was he had healed so quickly, and Ranka would not know the possibility of his wound somehow reopening was nonexistent.

“That won’t happen,” he said, endeavoring to keep his tone light. 

She looked at him askance. Anthony could almost see the various arguments being weighed in her mind one by one, and summarily cast aside. When she looked away with a sigh, he thought maybe that was that, but there was one more point she wanted to make before letting it rest. 

“The people in Askival, they talk. They wonder how it was so much blood be spilt in your home, and yet you live. With no healer, with no herb or magic, and you walk among us as though nothing happened, after only a handful of days. They talk so much I wonder…”

It was with some surprise that Anthony realized Ranka was worried. That was a rare enough occurrence that it took some time to recognize the symptoms. Anthony felt a small stab of guilt. He shrugged to cover.

“A good time to leave for a couple of months, then, wouldn’t you say? It will force idle tongues and idler minds to find something else to occupy them.”

Anthony went on to explain what his route to the faire would be, in the hope that it would help put her fears at rest, but also to keep her from speaking, from asking any awkward questions. He told her how at the first neighboring town of any size, about two days’ journey away, he was to meet up with and join a small caravan also heading to the faire. He would continue on with them, and their numbers would undoubtedly continue to swell as they went, picking up more and more travelers. They would reach Kaupang together, and it was generally agreed that many of them would also be leaving together for the return trip. 

As the boys finished up with the cart, securing the last of the merchandise, stall parts and sundry under the oiled tarp, Anthony filled up the silence with more words. When there was no more to say about the caravan, he told Ranka about the various smiths and artisans he expected to see there, some of whom he had apprenticed with. He told her about Kaupang, and what he knew of Jarl Oddbjörn, how quickly he expected to sell out of his stock, what he hoped to purchase for himself, what wider exposure would mean, and so on and on and on. Anthony was grateful when the boys finally finished and he could do a final inspection of the cart; his tongue had been cramping. 

Ranka waited to approach until he was satisfied with the state of the cart and was through lecturing the brothers on their duties while he was away. Out of her satchel she drew a largish package, wrapped tight against the rain, and handed it to him. 

“Here,” she said. “You’re a terrible cook at home. I shudder to think what you would be eating when reduced to a damp campfire.”

When Anthony took the package and familiar, delicious smells wafted to him, making his mouth water. The food inside would be lucky to last so long as the evening, when there would _be_ a campfire, he reflected hungrily. “Thank you, Ranka. I appreciate it.”

She rolled her eyes, and lightly punched his arm. “Do me a favor. While you’re at this faire of yours, shop yourself a wife.”

Anthony smirked. “Why would I need a wife when I have you?”

“Longevity of the bloodline, maybe?” she quipped.

“Yes, well. The closest I’m ever likely to have is those two,” he pointed at Appi and Bergi, who were both stroking the pony’s head and cooing. He winced. “Could you check on them now and again, make sure they haven’t burned down my workshop? Or the village?”

She smiled, and for a moment Anthony was sorry to be going. “I will. Just be cautious on the roads. There are odd ones that use them.”

“Like me?”

“Oddest of the lot,” she avowed with a grin.

Anthony chuckled. When his laughter subsided he looked at her a moment, taking in her freckled features and fierce blue eyes. He traced one cheek gently with a calloused thumb. “Take care, little love,” he said softly.

“And you.”

Turning away, Anthony tightened his cloak around his shoulders, tucked Ranka’s gift in a protected spot on the cart, and took up the pony’s leads, beginning the precarious journey downhill and thence out of Askival.

* * *

The consistent rainfall that made the roads of Askival slick and unpleasant were not enough to make the roads beyond impossible, but it certainly made for a miserable journey. Days went by without Anthony taking off his cloak, the rain running in rivulets off the peak of his hood, dropping inches from his nose, its ability to hold out any of the real moisture long exhausted. The wool was a soaked and leaden weight hanging off his shoulders, but it was warm, at least. Mud stuck to his boots, save for when the road became sAnthony or so tread and packed it might as well have been stone. He was thankful that the wheels of his cart only became mired enough to test the strength of his back twice, but the experience reminded him of why it was he had returned home previous years wishing for a fully covered wagon. 

He made time, even so, and made it to Askam as the sun began to dip behind the mountains on the second day. That night, at least, he spent under a roof, able to dry out properly for the first time since leaving his door.

The road beyond Askam became a little easier, as much to do with the roads which were much wider and firmly packed as to do with having company with him. 

Once a part of the caravan, travel became less miserable. Small as it was for a caravan, only seven other carts and wagons and a few single riders, company gave him the opportunity to speak with others, including two fellow smiths. They were of much lesser skill than he, but on a long journey with little more than rain and the squelching thuds of hooves and boots, _any_ conversation was welcome. The smiths shared a passion with him, and as long as he never mentioned his lineage they remained comfortable enough to continue speaking with him. Even listening to his fellow travelers offered a change that Anthony found much more welcome than he would have thought.

The trouble was that being on the road on his own gave him too much time, too much silence all to himself. At home in his own forge he could lose himself in his craft, firing metal until it glowed, beating it into shape until what he saw with his eyes matched what he pictured in his mind. He could spend an entire day with his hammer and his anvil, drumming out familiar rhythms… but which he could only hear with his tools. The counterpoint that had once been behind his ribs was gone, and that was the point. His work gave him a distraction, a purpose, and let him forget for a time the hollow silence in his breast. 

On the road to Kaupang, he had no such distraction. His hands were idle, and the task of picking the best side of a narrow track did nothing to occupy his thoughts. Wrestling wheels out of the muck, caring for the pony and reflecting on his own sodden state provided only brief diversions. His mind wandered to places he had no real desire to linger, to ponder those things he had actively avoided thinking of these last weeks. 

Before joining up with the caravan, Anthony found his mind casting itself back to the night he had been shot. It was a strange night to recall, dreamlike and crystal clear at once, spotted in places where he wasn’t certain if what he remembered was true, and in others where if he concentrated, he might still be on his blood soaked floor.

He remembered the soft sound of footsteps very well, and of opening his eyes, seeing how clean were the green slippers. He remembered the ‘Goddess’s’ smile as though it were a brand, its dangerous curve burned into his mind. He remembered her touch, both the gentle numbing of it and the terrible agony of taking his heart. And always those eyes, dark and glinting a promise to him as he lay at her mercy.

But then he would try to remember her speech, and it was hard to hear it in memory. The words he could recall, but Loki’s voice… that slipped away from him. It was deep, he was sure, and there had been a particular lilt to her words, mocking and self-assured. But while he could think to himself that Loki’s voice was ‘deep’ or ‘mocking,’ those were just words, and did little to help him ‘hear’ the voice in memory. He caught himself more than once wishing, and more than once cursing himself for doing so, that he could hear Loki again, just to know for certain. 

As if trying to call up the details of that night weren’t enough, his thoughts also had the disturbing tendency to slip along a related track, which was even more difficult to grapple with.

_Why_ had Loki chosen to save him?

A mortal attempting to understand the motives of a God was foolhardy at best, and Anthony knew it. If he even _had_ a reason for saving his life beyond a whim, which was questionable, then the chances of Anthony somehow unraveling the machinations of the Trickster were not very high. But when it came to his own life and his heart, he had a vested interest. The God had intimated that owning his heart had more meaning than was immediately obvious, that by agreeing to pay it for his life, Anthony had imparted something potent. It made him uncomfortable to think that Loki could have some sort of control over him.

With nothing else to occupy his thoughts, his mind had been free to dream up any number of inventive and increasingly unpleasant possibilities. He drove himself half mad with theorizing, and was not one whit closer to any real answers. Laying down to sleep at night, curled under what shelter he could make out of a spare square of tarp, offered no relief. His thoughts spun on. In the damp darkness he could examine the talisman, its bluish glow lighting up the night and turning the rain to a curtain of glittering stars crashing to earth. 

In joining the caravan, Anthony could be distracted by the sometimes banal talk going on around him, and with so many pairs of eyes around, he wouldn’t dare to sneak the more cursory glance at the talisman. Its light was not natural, and it would attract all the wrong sorts of attention. Far from frustrating, it came as a relief. He could almost believe that this trip was as any other in years before, that nothing had changed, and that he was not beholden to an inscrutable God.

Almost. 

The internal peace lasted approximately three days. The rain had at last cleared, allowing the sun to shine and the roads to begin drying out. It felt like an eternity since Anthony had last seen even a moderately clear sky, and was more than happy to walk without his cloak and hood. The world opened up as his peripheral vision was returned to him. 

The rest of the cobbled together company obviously felt the same, and for the first time Anthony got a really good look at them all, unhindered by hoods. Some he vaguely recognized from years before, though casual conversation over days had revealed no one as even a relatively close acquaintance, and none had dropped any hint that he _should_ know them. Anthony was glad that his face was not so well known as his name, it made speaking with people an easier matter. 

On the second day of no rain, he caught something in the mood of the company, a nervous tension that over the course of the day’s journey spread and infected them all. Even Anthony was affected, and he had no idea from where this uneasiness came. The low murmurings of his companions was a contrast to the easy banter from before, and he caught himself scanning the trees and the undergrowth that surrounded them, alert, though he still knew not for what. 

By the next morning the atmosphere had not changed, save to become more charged, so even the animals – the ponies, horses and the few dogs – all picked up on it. Ears canted back and forth, hooves dug at the earth, and eyes darted warily.

Calming his own pony as well as he could, Anthony decided to settle the small mystery and walked over to Dagr. He was one of the other two blacksmiths of the caravan, the youngest of all of them at twenty, and Anthony had immediately decided that he was a bit of a fool, whose ambitions far outstripped his abilities. Still, he was friendly enough, and more than willing to chatter with the older smiths in hopes of picking up what he could of their experience. If anyone was likely to know and be willing to share on the nebulous upset going through the company, it would be him.

He hardly needed to exchange morning greetings with him to know the boy was probably one of the most nervous out of the entire company. It was hard to know if the strokes he gave his horse were more reassuring to the animal or to himself.

“You seem as skittish as your horse this morning, Dagr,” he commented with a small smile. “Does the faire worry you so much?”

The younger man returned the smile uneasily, seeming to not notice that it was only meant to put him at rest. He had admitted before that this was to be his first faire that was at all larger than those held in his home village. Young as he was, displaying his wares at such a gathering as the one at Kaupang would understandably have him nervous.

Anthony privately thought that if he were as aware of his own workmanship as Anthony was, he would be a good deal _more_ nervous. 

“No, tis not that,” he said, and his voice was unconsciously hushed, as though he worried someone would overhear. His pupils were dilated as his eyes darted. “We are being followed.”

Anthony blinked, his shoulders tensing. “Bandits?”

Dagr shook his head. “Wolves.”

“Wolves?”

The boy nodded.

Incredulous, Anthony looked into the undergrowth, as though a furry head would be staring back out at him now he knew to look for it. He seriously doubted that a pack of wolves would be stalking their caravan. The reason for creating a caravan was protection, and save for the largest or most desperate of animals, they tended to avoid the large, noisy collection of humans moving through the forests. More worrisome were their fellow humans, who found a collection of fine wares and some gold within their reach a seductive lure, and worth the risk. Some caravans would hire men specifically to act as bodyguards, while others, such as their own, would rely on their own numbers to stave off attack. 

But wolves, well after the lowland snows had melted and in what looked to be a fat spring, with plenty of game?

Still scanning their surroundings, Anthony decided to remain cautious rather than outright skeptical. “I haven’t seen or heard any packs…”

“No, not a pack. Only two.” When Anthony cast him a look he tried to explain. “Only two wolves are ever seen. One grizzled black with a torn right ear, the other gray with a mottling of orange.”

“All this fuss over two wolves too stupid to leave a caravan alone?” One or two travelers on their own and Anthony could have understood this attitude, but in a caravan, even one that was just depending on themselves for defense…

Dagr at least looked a little insulted at the suggestion. “Even I would not be so skittish if that were all. But a pair went off to hunt the beasts, and though they say they struck one through the heart, it survived and took to the brush. The other they gave up on. When the hunters returned, the wolves came back also. Both of them.”

Anthony shrugged. “So there were three and now there are two.”

A head shake. “’Twas the black was struck, with the ragged ear. It was the same returned.” He glanced forward, where the rest of the company were preparing to leave. “Helki is convinced that they are Geri and Freki, come to watch over us, and many are coming to agree with him.”

That gave Anthony pause. Helki was a holy man, a dedicated follower of Odin on his way to Kaupang not for the gathering of traders, but to meet others of his kind and continue on his journey from there. He was alright, as holy men went. He was quiet and kept to himself and the Gods for the most part. Anthony avoided speaking with him on principle. From a distance the man was tolerable, and that was all he needed to be. Not so long ago if he had said a pair of wolves following the caravan was Geri and Freki, Odin’s companions, Anthony would have laughed it off. Now…

He rubbed absentmindedly at his sternum before he could stop himself. 

It was probably just the product of an overzealous priest’s imagination, seeing signs and the faces of his patron God everywhere. Such folk were not uncommon, and for the most part were also fairly harmless. You just learned how to ignore their overly pious ravings when they came, did your best not to get on the wrong side of them, and moved on. On festival days and especially on _blóts_ they came into their own, and would remain happy for weeks after that. 

Except that Anthony had undeniable proof that the Gods existed, and did sometimes make their presence known. They took at least a small interest in mortals and went so far as to alter fates. Anthony didn’t feel as though he could ignore such attestations as he had before, not so soon after his own encounter. It seemed all too likely to him that if it were true, it might relate to his first visitation. 

He caught Dagr staring at his hand and turned the fidget into a scratch before dropping his hand. “Is that what you think?”

The younger man took a moment before replying. “I am not sure. Perhaps they are, and who is to say that they are not? I think it would do no harm to show respect to creatures that may very well be Odin’s wolves.”

“And may do a great deal of good if they are and we show them the proper deference, eh?” Anthony grinned.

Dagr flushed. “Well…”

He jogged the younger smith’s shoulder good-naturedly. “I knew there were at least the inklings of wisdom in that head of yours. And so long as we don’t show them so much deference we let them take one of our ponies, I see no harm. Some prudence with piety, if you please.”

Anthony left the younger man smiling, though the lighter mood failed to touch the rest of the caravan. Soon they were all back to their brooding, Dagr included. Anthony kept to himself and a weather eye out. Thankfully, they were only two and a half days from Kaupang, and he did not have to endure it long. 

He never saw so much as a hair of a wolf.

* * *

The faire at Kaupang was about as Anthony remembered it: loud, crowded, stinking and confusing. The faire had gained quite the reputation of being _the_ event to attend for vendors hundreds of miles distant, from all disciplines and purveying all wares. In no small part this was due to the central and relatively easy to reach location of Kaupang itself. The town was a crossroads, and at some time in its past, when it had been practically unknown and a good deal smaller, travelers took to stopping here and setting up to trade with each other, hoping to lighten their loads – and weigh their purses – before continuing on. 

Whether conscious or not that their choice of location was strategically brilliant or not, the profits they earned ensured that they would do so again when next they passed, as would those who saw and took note of their sales. Sporadic tent pitching became habit, and then planned for as a stop along the way, and eventually the small town at the crossroads became a destination in itself.

The elders of Kaupang were no fools. Seeing so much gold and silver exchanging hands on their very doorsteps, they enacted a small tax on those vendors who camped on land that was considered part of the town. Such a tithe was unwelcome news, but given all the same for the sake of fertile sales grounds.

The vendors and their improvised market officially became a part of the town soon after, and it was renamed Kaupang, ‘market-place.’ The elders located certain vendors to certain areas, an attempt at organization that had since deteriorated, and offered board where they could, all the time collecting their fees. Kaupang, with this fresh flow of money and trade coming in for nothing more than the use of a rocky field that could not be sown, grew and flourished. 

It grew so much that even when there were no outside vendors at all it was still sizable, easily ten times that of Askival. Many who had come as traveling vendors eventually settled as the years passed, and there were of course some who fell on ill luck in their ventures and _couldn’t_ leave, or some who found Kaupang more welcoming than their distant homes, or any number of reasons. With the transient vendors, the population could more than double.

Anthony knew from experience that he could begin walking from one end of the market, and with the size and the number of people that he would have to navigate around, just making it to the other side could take the better part of an hour. If he were to stop and examine the wares of every vendor, it would be a full day before he finished, possibly more. Along the way he would be able to find cloth, herbs, jewels, precious metals, livestock from chickens to cattle, weapons and armor, exotic spices, potions, fortunes, slaves from any number of lands near and far, glass, amber, bone, tusk and furs, and even ships, displayed as clever miniatures at a vendor’s stall. All were of varying quality, all jumbled together with no real sense of order, and all being hawked by vendors at the tops of their voices, working to make themselves heard over their neighbors. Add to it all the occasional food or tavern stall, and the thick stink of sweat and dung mixed with cooking meat and weird spices, and it was an anarchy Anthony was glad only came once a year. 

Not that he was doing poor business. Kaupang’s elders had insured him a good location among his fellows, relatively calm and where many of the folk walking through would have a clear view of his display of blades and shields. His reputation – and that of his father – was enough to recall him to the elder’s memories, and they were quick to make sure he was satisfied.

His supply steadily dwindled, and more than one representative of large towns inspected his workmanship closely. Each left with smiles or something close enough to one, promising to recommend Anthony’s work to their leaders. It looked as though Anthony’s return home would be a good deal lighter than the journey to Kaupang, save for those supplies he spent some of his profits on - fine metals and raw ores. He couldn’t have asked for much more in terms of a successful trip. 

But still, something niggled at the back of Anthony’s mind, something stubbornly persistent that made him incredibly uncomfortable. It was very like the silence and solitude on the road that had left him open to wandering and pointless chains of thought. But while those had been thwarted by company and voices, this seemed to thrive in the chaos and bustle of the market. And while those thoughts had been clear this sense of unease, this was irritatingly vague, hard to pinpoint to a source. It lay like a toad in his brain, all the same, and only grew worse with each passing day, as each of his finely crafted weapons left his stall in the hands of those who could best put them to use.

He would be very glad when he could pack up and return to his forge in Askival.

It wasn’t until his next to the last day for the faire that he met the one man he’d been hoping to see. 

He came in midafternoon. Normally at that time of day the crowds would be at their thickest, but there was very little traffic that day, and so Anthony’s stall was unusually quiet. He was taking the opportunity to go over his remaining stock once more and make some calculations. He had less than a quarter of what he brought left, and what was there was of admittedly lesser quality than he usually liked to display – plus one or two of his best and most expensive items. It was considered poor business to leave before offloading as much as one possibly could, and there were many, many days left to the faire and plenty of opportunity to sell what little he had left. But then again, his rate of sale had been steadily declining, and what profit he was likely to make would be eaten up with the food and board for his pony he would have to dole out over the days it would take to earn it. Anthony judged one more day would balance out fine between possible sales and the cost to stay in Kaupang. Anything he had left over he would just have to bring back home. 

He had just made up his mind on that course and was beginning to go through the mental list of preparations, when a loud knocking made him turn back to the front of his stall.

Two men stood full in the afternoon sun, peeking into the gloom Anthony’s rigging of cloth offered. At a glance, Anthony recognized neither one of them. 

They were both solidly built; tall, broad shouldered and well-muscled in the way Anthony had come to readily recognize as a career warrior’s build. However, beyond that the resemblance was limited. 

The man on the left was younger than his companion, and stood a pace behind him. The relaxed air of wariness he bore, the quiet appraisal of his dark eyes and the conscious looseness of his posture whispered ‘bodyguard’ to Anthony’s mind. He wore his blond hair and beard long, with complex braids woven through both. The left side of his scalp was shaven clean and adorned with blue tattoos that travelled down his neck and past the collar of his _kyrtill_. His clothes, while fairly well cut, were worn and travel stained. As Anthony looked him over, the man finished his own scan of Anthony and his stall, seemed to lose interest, and turned his attention back out towards the rest of the market. 

The second man, when Anthony turned to him, was much more interesting. He was older than the first, though it was difficult to tell by just how much. He kept his own hair, which looked to be going silver around the edges, clipped exceptionally close to his head. His beard was neat and short, only a little longer than Anthony’s. There was an old scar across his left cheek and the faint beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of eyes and mouth. Most telling to Anthony, though, was that while the man was still substantial, he had the look of one who had let himself go a little to the soft. However impressive his physique was now, once it had been more so. 

His clothes were plain at first glance, simple and functional, but on closer inspection they were very well made, reasonably new and clean. Like the man behind him, he wore a belt equipped with both pouches and sword, but on the elder man it stood out a little more from the rest of his garb; it was well worn, well cared for, and obviously seen much use. Anthony assumed him to be an old warrior who’d found his fortune, and while had not forgotten his past, he no longer needed to venture out himself. 

The man’s face was very square, an impression furthered by his shaven pate, which gleamed in the light under the short prickling of hair. He had a heavy jaw and a mouth that appeared locked in a constant little smile, just quirking at one corner. His eyes, dark blue, twinkled readily and reassuringly, but Anthony sensed the hardness beneath the façade. One didn’t get to be an old warrior, let alone a successful one, without a certain amount of shrewdness.

Anthony took note of all of this as he walked back up to the front of the stall, putting on his best merchant’s smile and keeping in mind to not let the appearance of his customers put him off his guard.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” he said, sparing a glance towards the assumed bodyguard and then concentrating on the older man. “How may I help you this day?”

If the bodyguard took note of his inclusion in the welcome, he didn’t acknowledge it, and continued his deceptively relaxed watch unperturbed. The elder man, however, grinned widely, showing a mouth full of strong teeth. However old he was, he was still hale.

“That depends, Smith,” the man said, humor in his voice.

“On what, exactly?”

The man’s eyes crinkled. “On you and the answers you give to a few questions that I put to you.”

Anthony frowned. He wasn’t at all sure he appreciated the tone the oldster was using, or his superior manner. Anthony was fairly certain he was no town official, nor any sort of divisional staff for the market itself. He was quickly deciding to dislike the man and his games; a slow afternoon or not, he didn’t enjoy having his time wasted on what the stranger thought of as wit. “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he replied coldly. “If you wouldn’t mind clarifying…?”

There would be no mistaking Anthony’s tone, and indeed he saw the bodyguard twitch slightly, but the elder man only chuckled. “Of course, of course.” He straightened, and Anthony realized that he was in fact much taller than he had originally thought, taller even than his bodyguard by several inches. “I’ve been seeking out a certain smith. Or, to be clearer, I have been seeking the Great Smith. Unfortunately such is impossible, the man has been dead these past seven years, and so I’ve sought out the one man who might, possibly, be following in his footsteps. Even surpassing him.” His twinkling eyes fixed on him. “My search has brought me here. Are you in fact Anthony, the Great Smith’s son?”

The mention of his father, particularly as a qualifier to identifying _him_ , made Anthony automatically bristle, but the more the old man spoke the more cautious he felt he should be over his temper. This was obviously no random faire goer who happened to stop by and his tone, as well as his words, bespoke a seriousness of purpose.

“I am. So you have succeeded in part of your quest at least. But now you hold the advantage, sir. Who are you?” He spoke calmly, but he felt his pulse quicken slightly – with no heart to quicken it. Anthony thought he already had a good idea of who this man was.

The smile of the stranger became a little sly, and he glanced theatrically over one shoulder. He bent down again and leaned over the counter into the stall, lowering his voice so only Anthony could hear. “That I’ll tell you, Smith Anthony, but ask you keep it to yourself. I’d not have all the market bandying my name.” When Anthony nodded his agreement, he smirked. “I am Jarl Oddbjörn.”

Anthony’s pulse picked up again, and he felt a little prickle of excitement race up his sides. This was the man he had hoped to meet this year, but hadn’t really _expected_ to do so. 

The Jarl Oddbjörn was an exceptionally powerful man, controlling a good amount of territory, several large towns and some key roads, not to mention some of the best harbors and scores of long ships under his command. His rise to power and influence had been steady and swift. He was a clever man with ambition and fearsome drive, and not one it would be wise to cross. 

Anthony was under no illusions about his own goals. He wanted to surpass his father, for his name to become the more familiar one, the better respected. To do that, his works would have to become known and recognized as superior. The best way to do that would be an influential patron, more so one who would need to outfit his warriors in the best a smith could offer.

He knew he could offer the best. If the Jarl took him on as a personal outfitter, then his name would rise to outshine his father’s, he knew it would. But on the other hand, if the Jarl took a dislike to his work, or to him, his future could become difficult. Jarl Oddbjörn’s reputation was considerable, and a negative word from him would carry considerable weight. 

Anthony had confidence in his work, but a negative word need not be aimed its quality to leave its mark. And the Jarl, though obviously an old hand in battle, may not have the keenest of judgment.

Somehow, Anthony managed to keep his expression neutral as he nodded, then gave as proper a bow as he could manage behind his counter. It wouldn’t do to be rude or to show too much eagerness.

“An honor to meet you, my lord,” Anthony said as he rose to look the Jarl in the eye. In his mind, he was already replaying the entire sparse inventory he had just gone through, deciding what would be the most suitable to present as an example of his work. The selection was rather limited. “Since I doubt you have sought me out for my conversation, I return to my earlier question: what can I do for you?”

The look Oddbjörn gave him still had its humor, but there was also appraisal there. He was studying Anthony, weighing him up. “As might be expected when seeking a blacksmith, I have need of well-made metal works. As might be guessed by seeking you in particular, I desire greatly superior skill than what is commonly found. As might be assumed by my position, it is something more than shoeing horses.”

Anthony let himself smile slightly. The Jarl liked to play word games, keeping his exact motives close to the chest. Whether it was strictly needed in this case or if it was a force of habit Anthony didn’t know, but it wasn’t surprising. He was a Jarl. “Not shoeing horses and I doubt your lordship would come to me for something so simple as a plough or kitchen knife. But say, an axe…?” At the Jarl’s quirked brow he continued. “An everyday tool that is nonetheless essential, and the work it does is so much cleaner when the workmanship is well done.”

“Ah.” Oddbjörn held up a finger, his teeth flashing. “There lies the test, does it not? That the workmanship indeed be done well. That is not always the case, I fear, and what I am looking for is _exceptional_ craftsmanship.” His eyes narrowed, and for a moment the hardness in them was unveiled, bare. “I want the best that can be found, and have reason to believe that you are such a craftsman. I have come to see and decide for myself.”

“Of course.” Anthony nodded and turned back to the inside of his stall to choose a sample.

At first he thought to hand out one of the few particularly good items he had left. He had two that he would consider good enough to use as representations of his skill before a Jarl, a long spear and a mid-handled axe. The spear was one of his best, well hewn and balanced, and topped with a head tempered and sharpened to an edge that could cut the wind into twin breezes. But while it was a masterful work, the metal was of the same type as many of its kind and could be found anywhere. The axe, though, the axe he had made using the alloy he had perfected himself. A metal that was strong, flexible and incredibly sharp when honed to an edge, which it would hold longer than weapons made of any other metal. Besides which, the axe was a beautiful piece on its own, with an even better balance than the spear so it practically swung itself through the air, and with an economy of ornamentation at the poll of the head, just enough to fit a short prayer to Odin. Left to his own tastes, Anthony would have forgone the prayer, but warriors were very dedicated and they enjoyed having a short devotion worked into their weapons, so it was like praising the Gods with every swing. 

Out of the two there was no question which would be best to showcase his talents as a smith. He began to reach for the haft of the axe… and then abruptly hesitated. 

He’d been looking forward to the faire, in the hopes of meeting this very man, of this very situation arising, but now that it was here… he wasn’t sure he liked it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the source of his discomfort, but it was there, rearing up as his fingers stretched out for the axe. He didn’t like the way the man spoke to him, but that couldn’t really be helped. He was a Jarl and used to commanding others. But then, Anthony had never taken well to being ordered or feeling as though he were being directed.

Anthony frowned, and pulled back his hand. He didn’t want to show Jarl Oddbjörn that axe. Instead, he picked up another. It was one of those he had left of lesser quality, and which he hadn’t worked as hard to sell. The Jarl would expect him to present the very best he had with him, but Anthony hadn’t been explicitly ordered to do so. He decided to test the Jarl Oddbjörn even as the Jarl was testing him, and see how well he knew good craftsmanship from poor, and if he would even recognize that which was ‘exceptional.’

At least, that was the reasoning he gave himself why he left his best axe hanging where it was. 

He presented the axe to Oddbjörn, and he caught the unnamed bodyguard glance back at them curiously. Anthony kept his face carefully blank as the Jarl turned the weapon over in his hands, examining it carefully.

It was far from his best but it was still his workmanship. It was far from inferior. It was sturdy, sharp and well balanced enough to pass most examinations. Most, but not necessarily all. 

Oddbjörn hefted the axe, testing its weight and balance. He ran his hands along the haft, checking the grip, and then turned his attention to the head. He eyed the metal closely, holding it up to the light to scrutinize its color, flicked it with a finger to listen to the ring. Finally he backed away a pace and swung the weapon one handed through the air in a wide sweep, then carefully ran his thumb along the edge. When he stepped close to the counter again he wore a thoughtful expression. 

“It’s a good axe,” he said, and Anthony felt an inexplicable lift in his spirits. “The metal is true, the balance acceptable, and the haft strong. Yes, I believe this would be a very good axe.”

His focus shifted from the axe in his hands up to Anthony, and the little elation he felt immediately died away. There was a knowing gleam in the Jarl’s look, though he still smiled faintly. “Were I chopping wood,” he finished, and set the weapon back down. 

Anthony swallowed. Jarl Oddbjörn had caught him in his little impromptu test, then, and recognized the craftsmanship on the axe as good, but not particularly superior to any other. It was what he had wanted to find out, if the Jarl could even appreciate the level of skill that went into his work. For some reason, though, the proof did not settle Anthony’s mind at all. 

“This,” the Jarl indicated the axe, “cannot be your best. It makes an excellent tool for the home but only an acceptable weapon of war. I have heard your reputation, smith, and that of your craft. I would expect much better for your name to be as far flung as it is.”

Anthony tried to feel gratified at the glancing compliment, but it was lost in a confused tangle of other emotions. He _should_ be feeling elated, damn it. This was possibly the best thing that could happen for his career, the best way to get his name to outshine that of his father, and yet he felt none of that. Instead there was apprehension, bordering on dread. He couldn’t understand it, and with the Jarl and his bodyguard standing before him, he couldn’t take the time to track down the whys and wherefores of it. 

He forced a smile, pushing down the confused muddle. Whatever it was, he couldn’t let Oddbjörn see it. Anthony could figure it out later. Until then, he had a future to make for himself. 

“My lord has a sharp eye,” he said, picking up the axe. “This is indeed not my best work, but I thank you for the praise. For I can say in all modesty that it is,” he twirled the weapon in his hands, making a complex pattern, flipping it up in the air in front of himself before snatching it again. “One of my worst,” he finished with a cocky half-grin. 

Anthony was sure he heard a small snort from the bodyguard, either at his showing off or his claim that a more than passable piece was the _worst_ he had to offer. Jarl Oddbjörn, however, returned the grin, his interest quite obviously sharpened. “Really? I would be very interested, smith, to see your best, should you have any at hand.”

This time when Anthony went to his stock, he did not hesitate to pick up the best of his axes, though he still felt a vague wash of misgiving when he handed it to Jarl Oddbjörn. He ignored it, and kept his smile in place. 

Jarl Oddbjörn’s face lit at the sight of the axe. It was an expression that shifted subtly to one of appreciative awe as he put it through the same paces as the one before. For a moment or two the bodyguard watched his lord with interest, but turned his focus outward as passersby slowed or stopped to also watch, as drawn by the Jarl’s obvious pleasure as by the brightly glinting axe head, Anthony suspected. Unlike the first he had tested, which was obviously a tool being tested out, this was almost a dance as the axe was swung through in arcs and chops. It seemed to move of its own volition, rather than being pushed through the air. 

When he stepped up to Anthony’s counter for a third time, his smile was wide, and Anthony felt for the first time that it was completely genuine. “Now _this_ is the kind of weapon on which a man’s glory may be built,” he said, his grip on the haft tightening possessively. 

Anthony gave a small half bow, grinning. “Thank you.”

“A very fine weapon,” he murmured, looking at the axe. After moment he looked up at Anthony. “Would you be willing to allow me to test its sharpness, smith? I’ve no doubt that it possesses a deadly edge, and it hurts me think of such a fine weapon used to chop firewood, but I am curious…”

“Certainly,” Anthony agreed readily. He motioned behind him. “If you’d care to step around the stall, there are some sturdy logs ready for splitting.”

The Jarl did so, still carrying the axe, his bodyguard following close behind. After dropping down a cloth over his stall’s front to show he was out, he simply walked out the back to join the two men. 

In a way, the faire was a small town unto itself, attached to Kaupang. Its residents and even its buildings were transient in nature, and could leave only to be replaced the next day, ones neighbors sometimes changing on a weekly basis, but it was still a town of sorts. 

For the most part, vendors who came to the faire slept in or directly outside their stalls. Only those who had sturdy wagons for their wares and an assistant or two to act as guard indulged in finding rooms in one of Kaupang’s taverns. It was unlikely for one to be robbed by his or her neighbor; it was a stupid vendor who stole from the one directly beside him, as that would be the first place searched for any missing items. But thieving was still a very real danger, and setting someone trustworthy to keep watch over their goods through the night hours was prudent. In either case, there would be someone living in the stalls, and those who did so needed certain provisions. 

Behind Anthony’s stall was a small communal area, shared by himself and a dozen or so of his closest neighbors. Here there was an area for bedrolls, a community campfire and, what the Jarl and his man were headed for, a place to split logs for that same fire. There were some such areas that were large enough to accommodate the horses and ponies of vendors, but most did as Anthony and rented stalls at stables owned by Kaupang residents. With so many coming for the faire, it wasn’t difficult to find ones reasonably priced. 

There were some of his neighbors sitting, eating lunch, or otherwise taking a moment or two for themselves as the three of them came into view. They looked up curiously as a man wielding an axe came into their private area, but relaxed again at a nod from Anthony, whom they knew. They settled back and watched with quiet interest as the demonstration unfolded.

Jarl Oddbjörn looked around, and on spotting the chopping block and the waiting logs, nodded. Without preamble, he snapped out, “Rig!”

For an instant Anthony was confused, but the bodyguard acted immediately, striding forward and setting up the block to make it easy for one to swing an axe freely without taking down the stalls in the same motion. He set a log atop the block, a thick piece of long burning maple, and stepped back, turning to Oddbjörn.

Rather than stepping forward, the Jarl handed the axe over to his bodyguard – Rig, it would seem. He gave no instruction to the man, but Rig nodded in understanding and gave the weapon a practice swing or two, familiarizing himself with its weight. 

At first Anthony was puzzled why the Jarl would have his man test out the weapon’s edge as opposed to himself, when he would be able to feel as well as see in it action. Watching the big man Rig move, though, he understood. Jarl Oddbjörn was taller than Rig, and his frame naturally more substantial, but as Anthony had noticed earlier, the Jarl’s physique wasn’t what it could have been, what it once undoubtedly had been. Rig, on the other hand, was in his prime, the muscles in his arms moving like eels under his skin. Oddbjörn wanted to see a warrior’s weapon in the hands of a warrior. 

Rig showed no sign whether the action of the axe pleased him or not, and approached the waiting log purposefully.

In the muted silence, it seemed to Anthony that he was watching the warrior approach an enemy, and not a piece of firewood. There was nothing threatening in Rig’s behavior, nothing threatening in anything that was taking place. He’d seen his weapons in the hands of warriors before, knew well what it was that they were used for and suffered no delusions. Or at least, no _direct_ delusions. He was becoming uncomfortably aware that he had always managed to think of his creations and the purpose they were designed for separately in his mind. His weapons and the blood they drew were unrelated to each other in his thoughts. 

Rig striding forward, haft of axe gripped in his hands, Anthony had trouble keeping up that mental separation. All he could see was his beautiful weapon, construct of his hands, going into battle to kill.

No one noticed his discomfort, if it was even visible. Rig took position before the block and lifted the axe. He took careful aim and swung the head back. With an exhale and bunching of muscle, he swung the axe down, its edge singing through the air. 

The strike was true. The maple log split with a crack, clearly no more resistance to the axe blade than the intervening air. What earned a grunt of surprise from the Jarl and even a faint look of surprise from Rig was how the axe had continued on and buried itself two thirds of the way through the chopping block before coming to a stop. Those neighbors who had been watching sat up straighter, one or two exclaimed in protest.

Anthony’s chest hurt. He had to stop himself from rubbing at the hidden talisman that seemed to burn in his flesh.

Jarl Oddbjörn looked at Rig, who was wrestling the axe from the split block. “Rig, did you intend that?”

“No, sir,” the bodyguard replied, speaking for the first time in front of Anthony. “I meant only the log; the axe just kept going.”

The Jarl paused, thoughtfully. After Rig got the axe worked free and handed it back, Oddbjörn stared at it for some time before turning to Anthony. The first thing out of his mouth was not what he had been expecting. 

“I knew your father when he was alive, Anthony,” he said softly. He nodded at Anthony’s startled expression, dark eyes intense but clear. “Not well. Circumstances kept us from associating closely, but I was familiar with his work and some of what he dreamed to accomplish. It might have been a little dishonest of me not to mention this before, but you and I have met before. Though I doubt you remember me, you came only to your father’s knee at the time. No, I thought not,” he said when Anthony shook his head. He sighed. “In any case, sometimes he would talk about what it was he wanted for his work, and for you. I think in forging this,” he hefted the axe, “you may have achieved both of his dreams. And when I think that you still have only begun in your craft…” he shook his head, trailing off. 

Anthony didn’t attempt to call back his attention. He was too busy absorbing what had just been said. At the first mention of his father resentment had automatically risen up, but what the Jarl had to say about him threw him off. More, what he said his father had wanted for _him_. He hadn’t been aware that the old bastard thought of him as anything other than a nuisance. It was a strange idea to consider, and he was set more off balance than before. 

In something of a daze, Anthony returned to the inside of his stall, the Jarl Oddbjörn and Rig to the other side of the counter. With a little further praise of his work, the Jarl purchased the axe. Anthony was still a little too bewildered to haggle well, but Oddbjörn happily paid the asking price for the weapon, a not inconsiderable purse, and threaded it through his belt so it rested at his low back, easy to reach for and to draw quickly.

Before he left, the Jarl made some small overtures to future business dealings, saying how he would like to visit Anthony’s forge in person and see what else he had been working on. Anthony was left with the impression that he was doing his best to make a promise without actually committing to anything. 

He left with Rig walking a step behind and to the side, Anthony’s axe glinting from his belt. Anthony watched him until he was lost in the growing crowd, and was left with a tangle of thoughts to solve.

* * *

Objectively, the journey back home from the faire was considerably faster than the one going the opposite direction. The rain had not returned save for the occasional early morning drizzle, giving the roads an opportunity to dry out and become all that much easier to travel, and with the load in the cart significantly lightened even with his few purchases, the pony made better headway. Anthony managed to leave at the same time as three other travelers headed in the same direction, and a tiny, spontaneous caravan was formed, just enough to give the stray robber or predator pause and to keep Anthony’s mind from wandering. 

Eventually though, Anthony had to take the much less travelled road to Askival that none of the others needed, as he knew would happen. From there, subjectively, the journey began to drag. 

Even on his own, Anthony wasn’t too concerned about bandits. The final stretch to his village was so out of the way that most enterprising thieves avoided it, finding much more fertile hunting grounds elsewhere. Remembering what Dagr had said on the journey out, though, about the two wolves stalking the caravan, Anthony made sure to have one of his remaining axes in his belt and the good spear easy to reach within the cart. But it wasn’t concern over his own safety that made time slow to a crawl for Anthony, but the solitude. Once again he was easy prey for his own wandering thoughts, and they made poor companions. 

He worried at first that they would take on much the same tone as they had before, and he would find himself fixating on his lack of a heart, the talisman, and Loki. Instead, they turned to Jarl Oddbjörn, his work and his father. 

Why had he hesitated to hand over his best axe to the Jarl? He’d gone over it in his mind again and again, and the reasoning he had concocted, that he was testing the Jarl’s knowledge and experience, just didn’t ring true. It had worked well enough in the moment, but in the silence of the road with only himself to answer to, it was very hard to lie convincingly. He hadn’t intended to test Jarl Oddbjörn when he handed him the inferior axe. He hadn’t _wanted_ him to see his best; he hadn’t _wanted_ him to see how well he could do. 

That was reasoning that felt true, but which made no sense to him whatsoever. Having his name finally overshadow that of his father’s had been his drive and fire for so long that he couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been there. It was what had driven him from home and across half the world to learn all that he possibly could. It was what had him working at the forge from the small hours before dawn well into the night. It was the threat of not realizing that dream that had him praying, begging to the Gods and getting Loki to answer. It wasn’t something he was likely to give up on a whim, on some unsubstantiated _feeling_. 

Yet he almost had, and he couldn’t understand why. None of the possibilities he came up with seemed terribly probable. Some of them left him feeling acutely unsettled. 

Then there was his father. Generally, Anthony did his best not to think of the man at all, which was a challenge when so many of the people he met insisted on mentioning him at least once, or referring to Anthony as ‘the Great Smith’s son.’ He hated it, and the continued repetitions only made him hate the man even more.

He remembered his father as a workaholic, constantly at the forge with his hammer, and absolutely no time for his family, wife or son. Any time when the man wasn’t at the table for a meal, he could be found in his workshop, crafting something else, something new, something better. It wasn’t all that different from _his_ life now, Anthony conceded, but at least he didn’t have a family to neglect in his obsession. 

The Great Smith had been great, indeed, forging the best of weapons and tools, and well-liked by all who knew him. He was just a piss poor family man. His wife, Anthony’s mother, ran the house with unmatched precision, the keys to the house jingling at her hip. Winter stores were always plentiful under her rule, the hearth always warm, the home always orderly. It struck Anthony, even at a young age, that his mother was like many of the women of the village when their husbands were called away to battle; preoccupied, with eyes casting off to long distances when she thought no one was looking. Except she had that same look even when her husband was only a room away. 

It probably wasn’t his father’s fault when she died of fever one winter. Anthony had muddled memories of his worried face, of his demanding the healers to work their magic for her. But she still had died, and Anthony blamed it on his father’s habitual neglect. If he’d only been there, she wouldn’t have fallen ill to begin with. 

Anthony could only recall his father as a selfish, oblivious being who, when he finally noticed Anthony’s growth, took to demanding the impossible of his son. 

He’d driven Anthony, instructing him in the ways of fire, metal and the craft of shaping both. The same focus that had him at the forge day and night was redirected at Anthony, meant to shape him into a smith in his own image. As soon as he was able, Anthony had left to make his own name. 

The irony was that in doing so he had driven himself far harder than his father had ever done, and in trying to defy him by going his own way he’d become more like the man than he ever would have had he remained. 

He supposed that driving his son could have been what Jarl Oddbjörn had meant when he said that his father had wanted something for him. The way he had said it though, with a kind of tenderness, gave him just enough doubt to wonder. 

He would be glad to be back home. Back at his forge, with his idiot apprentices, his nosy neighbors and Ranka. Being alone with only idle hands left him far too open to useless contemplation. He would be glad to see anyone after so long alone on the road. 

Since leaving the main road, Anthony had passed only a single traveler passing in the opposite direction, a day out from the village. He could have only come from Askival, though Anthony didn’t recognize him. To be fair, it had been closing in to evening, and Anthony was tired. It had been an old man, slightly bent and leaning on a staff, his face mostly obscured by his brimmed hat, from under which his long gray hair and beard only hid him further. Anthony nodded to him in greeting and passed on. There was still an hour’s light to travel by, and he was eager to make it home. 

The next day found Anthony pushing on almost before the sun had risen. By the time the light was strong he could recognize his surroundings. By midmorning, he could make out the faint smudge of smoke from hearth fires in the sky.

Anthony breathed deeply and grinned to himself. He felt more at ease already. It was a feeling likely to dissipate when he got home and had to unpack, set to rights the mess his apprentices had undoubtedly made, and begin the long process of catching up a backlog of work, but even that brought a sense of relief. 

His grin slowly faded as Anthony approached the village. A worry line appeared between his brows, studying the smoke, and he drove himself and the pony a little faster, then a little faster again, the cart rattling. When he came around the final bend of the road he was almost running and he froze as his home finally came into view.

Askival had been put to the torch, the frames of homes still smoldering in the slanting afternoon light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys ever seen Jurassic Park? You know that thing they did when the dino DNA they got had gaps, where they took frog DNA to patch it up? It was definitely not dino DNA that they used, but it was close enough to kinda patch and work from there, right? Take that as what I’m doing with this story, only replace ‘dino DNA’ with ‘accurate Norse/Viking history’ and ‘frog DNA’ with ‘medieval English history’ and we’ve got it made. ^^;
> 
> NOTES!
> 
> Kaupang: If you look up ‘Kaupang’ on Google, you’ll come up with a few large towns, each with their own history and solid geographical locations. This is meant to be none of them. ‘Kaupang’ means ‘market-place’ and as I needed a name for a Norse version of Constantinople, it seemed to fit well enough. 
> 
> Askival: Again, a town that probably exists has this name, this isn’t it. The name means ‘valley of ashes,’ and because I’m a twisted little monkey, that’s what I decided to call Tony’s village. Don’t ask why the founders of the town would have called it that. Maybe they were prophetic.
> 
> Askam: See above. This name means ‘ash trees,’ which is much nicer than the meaning for ‘Askival.’ (Maybe valley of ashes actually meant valley of ash trees.)
> 
> Keys: The role of women in Norse culture, (please don’t kill me for the phrase ‘Norse culture,’ it’s easier than the alternatives and I’m tired), was very different from that of women of other countries at the time. One of the differences being how much power they had over material goods. When the men would go off on their battles and raids, those women who stayed behind – and not all of them did, some fought right alongside the men – were completely in charge of the homes. Land, livestock, farms, children, everything. One of the symbols of that power was her possession of the keys to every lock in the home.
> 
> Surt: Surt, or Surtr, is a being from Muspelheim, the Realm of fire, and is foretold to be the slayer of Freyr at Ragnarök, bringing flame that will engulf the Earth, the other Realms, and possibly even Yggdrasil, the World Tree, so that creation can begin again. As is generally assumed, I’m suggesting that he’s a mite warm to hang around.
> 
> Blót: A blót is a feast and gathering, taken at different times of the year, following more or less the changing of the seasons, (I’m simplifying a lot, here), and included a sacrifice of an animal. Modern heathenry still has blóts, but without the sacrificing of live animals bit.
> 
> Geri & Freki: Odin had four companions, two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, and two wolves, Geri and Freki. They’re typically seen at Odin’s side, being fed by him at his table, but are also attributed to be carrion eaters on the field of battle. They’re also seen quite often as extra eyes for Odin, much as his ravens are. Their names are generally interpreted as both meaning ‘the ravenous’ or ‘greedy one,’ but traced back, Geri is closer to ‘greedy’ and Freki as ‘covetous’ or ‘avaricious.’ 
> 
> Rig: ‘Rig’ is an old name for Heimdall. Does my using that name for this particular character mean anything? We’ll find out! :D
> 
> Ranka: Three guesses who this character is meant to be in the Iron Man to Norse history translation. ‘Ranka’ is a nickname for ‘Ragneiðr,’ which means, loosely, ‘to counsel.’
> 
> Oddbjörn: Again, take a guess at who this is meant to represent. ;) ‘Oddbjörn’ has two parts, the first, ‘odd’ meaning ‘weapon-point’ or ‘spear-point’ and the second, ‘björn’ meaning ‘bear.’
> 
> Appi & Bergi: You don’t have to guess. These two are Dummy and You (or Butterfingers), Tony’s bumbling arm robots. ‘Appi’ means ‘fool’ and ‘Bergi’ means ‘to help, to save.’
> 
> Sölvi: This name means ‘pale.’
> 
> Dagr: This name means ‘day.’
> 
> Helki: Basically, this name means ‘holy.’
> 
> Jarl: This is a Norse chief, but is usually translated to ‘earl.’
> 
> Where is LOKI?: You may have noticed a distinct lack of Loki in this chapter. It may come as cold comfort, but there will be a lot of him next chapter. Promise.
> 
> Special thanks goes out to those wonderful readers who have shown so much interest in this story, and to everyone for being so patient with me and my long time between updates. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki causes mischief in Midgard, has a few interesting conversations, and notices something that causes him alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, it’s been a long time between chapters. I apologize to everyone who’s been waiting so patiently, and hope the nice long chappy makes up for it.
> 
> You may have noticed that we now have a number of chapters this fic is projected to arrive at. After doing a detailed outline for the whole fic, I'm 90% sure we’ll end up at 15 chapters. This is subject to change, as some chapters may end up fusing together and some others may spawn of into new ones. One character in particular is already trying to make himself into more than I had planned for, so we’ll see.
> 
> I’ve come to realize two things in the writing of this chapter. One, I really, _really_ want to do my own interpretation of the Norse myths without the Marvel fusion. And two, this is probably the most complex fic I have ever written.
> 
> Prepare thyselves for much lore! Detailed notes after the chapter.
> 
> Minor Disclaimer: It’s not history, it’s just vaguely historical.

### Part III

* * *

_While the Ironmonger was left to grapple with his new self and the thoughts that twisted like vipers in his grasp, there was considerable stir in faraway Asgard._

_It was known among the Æsir that Loki had some new scheme, a new plot taking shape in his head. None could say for certain what it was, what it might be meant to accomplish or what trickery Loki would use to bring it about, but these things need not be known absolutely. It was enough to know that Loki schemed to send rumors flying from one tongue to the next, until all of Asgard chattered with speculation._

_‘What was Loki planning this time?’ went the talk. Who would fall foul his wicked schemes, what kind of embarrassing mess would they find themselves in as a result?_

_Many of Asgard heard, wondered, speculated and then thought no more of Loki and his mischievous ways. To cause turmoil was Loki’s way, they reasoned, and there would be no stopping the young Prince from having his fun. Some others, such as Odin the Allfather, Frigg and Iðunn, did not seem to hear these wonderings at all and certainly never added their voices to the speculations._

_But there were those in whom these rumors found fertile ground, took root and flourished. To many Æsir Loki was not a friend, nor a nuisance, but an enemy to be watched. Neither the protection of his station, his father Odin nor his blood bound brother Thor could shield him from their suspicions. To them any word of a new scheme was cause enough to watch him._

_Such was the lay of the land in Asgard where it came to the Trickster, but the Trickster was used to such sentiment, and neither rumor nor mistrust among his fellow Asgardians could upset his routine._

* * *

Loki, the Trickster God, danced on an early morning breeze that coiled high above the rocky, rolling landscape of Midgard. He twirled as a gust brushed past him, flitted through a passing flock of starlings, bounded higher and higher into the sky, springing off of soft whorls of cloud before diving back to the earth, wild laughter bursting from his lips as he plummeted. 

This was absolute freedom, and the Skywalker reveled in the feel of it whipping over his skin. 

With a flick and a twist of his body, he pulled out of the suicidal dive, lean body less than an inch away from the rocky turf, and laughed again. He loved Midgard, loved it in a way that none save perhaps Odin could understand or share. Everything was so simple here, so straightforward, so open, so _easy_ that it was almost impossible _not_ to be carried away in the arms of vagrant winds. What was there in Midgard that was of value to any of the other Realms, that could have them clawing for control of it with each other? Nothing. There was nothing here that anyone coveted for their own, so it was left alone, alone to its simplicity and its freedom. 

It was those very qualities which Loki valued the most. Freedom, simplicity, opportunity, all things that were denied him elsewhere, or which he had to fight so hard to gain were at every turn in this Realm. Odin understood that, it was one of the reasons he came here so often himself. He had seen his adoptive father, guised as human or animal as he walked the mortal Realm, aware that he was observed, though sometimes not, Loki thought. Occasionally they came together to explore, carouse or cause trouble. Though Odin would never describe his meddling with the humans as anything as lowly as mischief or pranks, the results were often the same. 

Loki was not so fastidious, and the humans were such a delight to play with. 

Like a leaf on the breeze, Loki blew into a town full of the creatures, each going about their lives in blissful ignorance of his presence, and too self-absorbed to be much aware even of each other. He flitted amongst them, and though they did not see him or hear his laugh, they felt the influence of his passing. 

In one home the milk left to stand on a table soured in its pitcher, less than an hour out of the cow. In another an old woman with more life behind than before her suddenly laughed aloud at a memory forgotten for many years, startling her granddaughter. In a darkened bedroom he heard secrets shared between two lovers and carried them away, whispered them into ears so they were secrets no longer. On the edge of town he set a traveler’s steps along the wrong path, sending him to adventures, perhaps towards his fortune, perhaps to his death. 

And then he was gone, blown through and out of the little town to tumble along his way, his touch never felt but experienced by those he left behind. 

He flew high above, spiraling up and up until he was satisfied with his height. With all the weight of a thought, he alighted on a shred of cloud, the leather of his boot sinking a little in its giving mass before coming to a halt. From this shifting perch, Loki looked down to watch the result his presence would have on the human town, the effects of his little touches expanding outward like ripples. Some were too light to go far, but others, they would spread out and out, touch and intersect and overlap and create brand new ripples, a pattern growing far beyond what he had done to start it, beyond anything that even he could predict. 

It was a slow, chaotic, beautiful dance, all begun with the barest of contact. Yes, he loved Midgard and all of its magnificent simplicity. He loved to see the exquisitely complex patterns he could fracture it all into, again and again. 

Perched high above the world, short cloak flapping about his shoulders, Loki grinned into the wind with a smile like the edge of a knife.

* * *

The dizzying journey across the Bifrost ended abruptly, depositing Loki in a large, shining room with gently curving walls and ceiling. As he stood still the few seconds it took to regain his balance, he observed that the room was indeed spinning very slowly around the stable, polished floor. This was nothing strange; the arrival point of the Bifrost in Asgard always spun as it was in use, the globe shaped building rotating on its axis as travelers walked the bridge and coming to a halt again once the bridge was clear. Even as he watched the concave walls were stilling, the intricate, knotted patterns worked into their surface becoming clear. 

No one else stood in the Bifrost’s checkpoint with him, which surprised him somewhat. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going – he never did – but even without volunteering that information, he could usually depend on one person always being on hand to ‘welcome’ him back. 

He shrugged to himself, straightened his _kyrtill_ and left the building to follow the glowing rainbow bridge to the City of Asgard, his boots making no noise across the polished floor.

It had been morning in Midgard. Here it was late in a clear afternoon, soon to become a crisp evening. The globe building stood on a tiny spit of land, which in turn was perched precariously on the edge of, essentially, the Realm of Asgard. 

Stepping out of the building, Loki’s eyes were met with a narrow inlet of glittering sea, crossed through with the rainbow bridge that began at the very foot of the door and led to the tiered City of Asgard, his father’s hall, Valaskjálf , standing tall and proud at its center. To the left and right he could see mountains rising up out of the sea, and were he to turn around he would see a roiling, rising mist as the waters around him tumbled over the edge of Asgard into oblivion. 

The very edge of Asgard was a literal edge. Unlike Midgard or any other Realm, Asgard was not a globe hanging in the void of space, but something akin to a shield on its side. All of the lands, seas and inhabitants of Asgard existed on a single side, and for those who were close enough to its rim, they could bear witness to something no other Realm could boast. Beyond the edge of Asgard, through the spray of a never ending sea as it poured away, was the universe. So close one felt as though they could reach out and touch other galaxies as they hung, was all of the cosmos, bare and unfiltered. It was a sight unmatched in any other Realm. To stand on the very brink of the world and gaze out into infinity, the roaring of a dying ocean rumbling through one’s bones, was to either feel in complete control of one’s destiny or to feel utterly insignificant. 

But that was not the sight which arrested his attention now. He had finally spotted the figure he’d expected to find awaiting him when he’d arrived. 

Heimdall came down the Bifrost with a purposeful step, his golden, pupil-less eyes locked on Loki. He was a big, broad shouldered warrior charged with the guardianship of the Bifrost, and by extension Asgard as a whole. It was a position bestowed on him before Loki’s birth, given because of his particular talents. It was said that he could see for leagues during night or day, even into far distant Realms, with hearing so keen he could make out the wool as it grew on the sheep of those Realms as well. Many said there was nothing at all that Heimdall failed to see or hear, and Loki had seen enough of the man’s talents to know where such suppositions came from, and that they were not entirely without weight. 

He also knew well enough, through careful observation and a few even more careful experiments that those suppositions were also not entirely true. There was a trick to Heimdall’s apparent omnipotence, and it wasn’t as complete as he would have those around him believe. It was still impressive, but Loki knew where some of the blind spots in Heimdall’s vision lay, and guarded that knowledge closely. One never knew when it might be useful to know how to become invisible, even from allies. 

The warrior wore his armor, as he did every day, with his horn Gjall at his hip, ready to be sounded at the first sign of trouble coming over the Bifrost. There was a prophesy – there were _always_ prophesies – that the end of Asgard would come from across the Bifrost, and Heimdall took his guardianship of it very seriously. His home, Himinbjorg, looked over the Bifrost from a near cliff, so even while not on active duty he might watch and listen for the end to approach. When it did, whatever form it came in, it would find Heimdall ready, and at his call all of Asgard would rise in arms against the threat. 

And he hated Loki. For reasons that were understandable, though perhaps a little baffling in their depth, the sentinel despised his younger Prince, perhaps all the more _because_ he was a Prince. Loki did not mind him his animosity. It made him such a delightfully easy target. 

When the two of them were a dozen feet apart, Heimdall stopped, planting his feet firm and wide so he remained directly in the center of the bridge. Such a move did not block Loki from continuing on his way, there was plenty of room to either side of him, but to force his Prince to give way was just the kind of casual insult that he was prone to. He stared, unblinking, into the distance somewhere just over Loki’s right shoulder, his face set in a scowl. 

Loki grinned at him in a friendly fashion. 

“Greetings to you, Heimdall Gatekeeper.”

The stoic man did not reply, nor his golden eyes flicker from their fixed point beyond Loki’s shoulder. For all the worlds he looked like a statue, oblivious to his surroundings.

Loki took a few steps forward and waved a hand before his frozen face. He had to reach a little, for tall as he was, Heimdall was taller still. “Hello, Heimdall? Are we awake this afternoon or merely pretending to be? Do you intend to play at your guardianship, with eyes open and mind full of dreams?”

The scowl on Heimdall’s face deepened a fraction at the suggestion of being less than alert at his post. Without looking him in the face, he finally spoke. “My mind is full of nothing, save what is before me. Greetings, Loki.”

“I’m flattered to hear you say so,” he said, his smile taking a slightly leering quality before it evaporated completely. “’Loki,’ Gatekeeper?”

The big man’s mouth worked, as though tasting something foul. “Greetings, _Prince_ Loki,” he amended in a slight growl.

Loki’s smile returned, bright and clear. “I thought that was what you said.” He affected a look of concern, studying Heimdall. “You know, I begin to think that you have spent entirely too much time on this bridge all alone. It has dulled your wits, my friend, having no one to sharpen them on. After all of these years, a simple greeting somehow eludes you?” When that failed to elicit more than a tensing of the other man’s lips, he went on. “Perhaps I should send you some company, someone to banter and exchange clever conversation with, and to keep you warm on your long nights of watching. Perhaps a goat?”

Heimdall’s face darkened with an angry flush, but still he refused to say a word. There wasn’t much that he could say, for though the old watchman made no issue of small insults, he knew better than to be too blunt with one of Odin’s sons.

Loki felt no such restriction, and allowed his tongue to run on. “Though that might be too much to begin with after being so long out of practice. You are only a little younger than my father, after all, and one must not choose too feisty a companion for one so elderly.”

He took a step forward, into Heimdall’s personal space, staring up into the eyes that refused to focus on him but which he knew could see him perfectly well. He held his ground and his stare until finally, grudgingly, the Gatekeeper stepped to a side, just enough to allow him to continue without having to veer his path. Loki took it, taking long, quick steps toward the city. Over his shoulder he called, “I shall see if I can hunt up a toad for you, my friend!”

He didn’t see the other man’s reaction, but he could well imagine it. It was all part of the game that Heimdall had started years ago. He liked to remind Loki quietly but constantly that he, Heimdall, was keeping a close eye on the Prince, in whatever Realm. Most times he was content to do this by his gracious self always awaiting him on his return from other Realms, though he would occasionally drop a hint, a little mention of something specific Loki had done as proof that he could see him wherever he went. 

The fact that none of this bothered Loki in the slightest seemed to be completely lost on the old fool. To make matters worse, he could never keep up in the trading of witty banter. It was most distressing. 

The walk from the Bifrost and the bridge to Valaskjálf was not an inconsiderable one, but one that he was long used to. If he took the direct route on a fine day such as today then he could be before the gates of his father’s hall in a little over an hour, and then in his own rooms in another fifteen minutes. Unless he decided to take a magical shortcut, of course, then the journey would be over in a blink. 

Loki opted for neither route, but ducked down into one of the first side roads that appeared and followed a long, winding path through the city. He rarely took a direct path home, preferring to be as circuitous as possible, seeing and hearing as much of the city as he could every time. There was always something new to learn when one was willing to put themselves in the right way and remain open. He had explored the city so thoroughly over the years that there were some corners he was sure almost no one else was aware of. And, as with the town in Midgard, exploring new ways home offered up so many opportunities for little fits of mischief. 

Valaskjálf was just beginning to truly loom over him in his final approach when a very familiar flash of gold caught his eye.

“Sister!”

The woman stopped dead in her tracks and whipped around to face who had hailed her, her golden hair fanning around her and glinting in the sun. No illusion or poetic exaggeration, that. Loki knew better than perhaps any save the lady herself that the locks that fell around her shoulders truly were gold, each strand a cobweb fine wire. Her fine, pretty face clouded in a dark frown when her eye picked out Loki from the thin crowd. She covered the distance between them with quick, angry steps. 

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” she snapped as soon as she was near, with not so much as a word of greeting.

Loki smiled sweetly into her face, contorted as it was with restrained fury. “More times than I have ever said it, gentle sibling of my heart. You should not frown so or you will mar your beautiful face. How then will you charm Thor?”

The barb was an easy one, but it struck true enough. Loki saw something flicker in the lady’s crystal blue eyes, and she drew her head back proudly, endeavoring to look down her nose at him. Without too much effort she was able to manage it. She was a tall woman, fair of face and figure, but not at all frail. She was a warrior of breeding, and it was reflected in her bearing, her quick tone and in her attire. Where many ladies of the courts favored long gowns of fine cloth and intricate design, she chose to wear what was practical as well as fine, with equal acknowledgements towards femininity and combat. Rather than a gown, she wore a long, rust red _kyrtill_ over close fitted leggings and boots with hard soles. At her waist were belted a knife of medium length amongst her pouches, which Loki knew she could use. She could use nearly any weapon put in her hands, and Loki had no doubt that it was only the nonthreatening air of Asgard’s market streets that kept her from having her entire collection of sharp and pointy things belted to her body.

“Say as you will, Trickster,” she said, tone icy. “It would take more than wrinkles to turn his eye from me.”

“Quite true, my dear Sif,” he agreed easily. “Though your face grown seamed and your back bent as a branch, you are still not without your charms. For who could resist the beauty of your golden hair? And that, you know, will last forever.”

Sif glared daggers at him. Of course she knew her golden hair would never dull, as well as he did. For hadn’t it been Loki who had won her golden hair for her from the _svartálfr_ , after he had sheared off her darker locks while she slept?

Before the lady could compose a properly scathing reply, another voice, familiar to them both, called out from behind her and made her smile. It was not a very handsome smile, one tainted by childish arrogance, but it wouldn’t do to point that out, Loki decided. 

“Sif, where have you got to?”

Without taking her eyes off of Loki, Sif called back over her shoulder, “Here, my love. I’ve found a familiar face amongst the crowd.”

Within moments they were joined by Thor, Loki’s brother and Sif’s husband. His face split into a wide, genuine smile at the sight of Loki, which was just as sincerely returned. “Brother! Returned from your time on Midgard already?”

Enjoying the brief look of annoyance that flickered across Sif’s face, he shrugged. “For the time being. There is so very little that requires my attention here, I doubt I’ll remain long.”

Thor, over-muscled and seeming almost too large for the narrow street the three of them shared, eyed his brother. “I think perhaps you are growing negligent in your duties, Loki. Our father has let it be known that he would like to speak with you, as early as can be arranged.”

Loki suppressed a sigh, wondering what it was the old man wanted this time. Whenever the Allfather ‘let it be known’ that he wanted words with the younger of his two sons, it never boded well; usually it meant he had been caught at some prank, or was given some new responsibility, or was expected to solve some riddle. He had heard of no brewing troubles, or at least no more than was usual, so it was likely to be something personal. Wonderful. 

He glanced at Sif, who was taking hold of Thor’s arm possessively. 

Were Loki to go to any Æsir of the court and ask them their opinion of the Lady Sif, he knew that the response would be unvarying. All would swear by their dearest that she was a good woman and a good warrior, fearless and true, and as good a partner to the Prince-in-waiting as could be hoped. Loki couldn’t argue with any of those things, he had seen them all for himself. He had seen her ferocity in battle, knew her equally fierce devotion to his brother, and had seen enough of her in court to know she possessed the kind of shrewd mental agility that was required to negotiate its complex political and social mazes. She could make a formidable Queen, should the day ever come. 

Yet to all of this, he out of all the rest of the Court could add something more to his observation of the Lady Sif, his sister by marriage. He could add a single spot of corrosion to her otherwise immaculate character, and she well knew it. That he had refrained from doing so, that he kept back this revelation from her peers, most particularly Thor, infuriated the fair-haired warrior. She mistrusted him for this threat he held over her, and was ever alert to any little thing that could put them on equal footing. 

It would be just as well to not have such a sharp pair of ears so near when speaking of Odin with Thor. 

“You have recalled me, Thor. Sister Sif.” He smothered his amusement at her twitch - she would not berate him for the familiar title before Thor. “Upon arriving I met a most melancholy figure upon the bridge. After some inspection, I came to believe it was your brother. I promised him that I would find some suitable company to brighten his day, and I can think of none better to fit the call than your beautiful self.”

Sif looked at him suspiciously, clearly seeing that Loki had some ulterior motive for having her leave, some sly insult woven into his words. Before she could think of a way to call him out on these suspicions, though, Thor answered for her. “It has been some time since we have seen Heimdall away from his post at the Bifrost. Too long. A visit to him sounds the very thing since he will not come to us!”

“Shall we go now, Thor?” Sif asked, guessing at Loki’s aim to separate them and attempting to thwart it. 

But Thor, upon glancing at Loki and seeing something in his eyes, deferred. Though he did so with all the subtlety of an ox. “You go ahead, Sif, I will soon follow. There are some things I would discuss with my brother also.”

Grudgingly, and with a warning glance in Loki’s direction, Sif complied with the request, back stiff and boot heels striking the stone street with resounding clacks.

As she was leaving, and making certain he was loud enough to be heard, Loki said, “I find vanity and jealousy are such unattractive qualities, don’t you, brother?” He couldn’t see Sif’s reaction, but he heard the boot strikes stutter a step before continuing on, faster and louder than before. He smiled even as Thor’s face darkened. “I don’t believe she has ever forgotten that her most beautiful feature is all due to me.” He leaned forward, as though imparting some secret. “I think she resents me, brother.”

Thor shook his head tiredly. He was familiar with the games played between brother and wife – familiar enough to be weary of them, but also to know nothing could be gained by trying to interfere. “You should not bait her so, Loki.”

“Why should I not? Tis no fault of mine if m’lady’s pride is so very easily pricked.”

“It gains you nothing to do so. Why insist on turning every hand so firmly against you?”

Loki deflected again, answering question with question. “And why should I pander, when the best _that_ could gain me is forbearance and condescension?” He shook his head, grin flashing. “Rather that hearts should fill with fire at my name, whatever the reason, than with pity or snobbishness.”

“Rather they fill with _ire_ ,” Thor muttered darkly. He shook himself, motioned for Loki to follow. “Let us walk, brother, and allow the traffic to continue.”

Loki fell into step beside him, keeping up with his long strides easily as they meandered through the twisting roads of Asgard’s capitol city. 

It was a fine day, with clear skies and a freshening breeze blowing in from the sea. The City of Asgard – which was also called Asgard, a failure of imagination that Loki considered almost criminal – was almost entirely encircled by the sea. When the first masons had laid the first stones of the city they had done so with an eye towards defensibility as well as splendor. It was a well-placed caution on their part, no doubt guided by Odin, King even then, as the Æsir were often fallen upon by other races, most notably the Vanir and the Jötuns. 

Though, to be sure, Asgard’s quarrels with Vanaheimr had long since been smoothed over and forgotten, or, if not exactly _forgotten_ then tactfully ignored. Whereas Asgard’s relations with Jötunheimr, well… there things were still at odds, perhaps worsened by the fact that one of the giant folk was now considered kin to the Æsir. Loki, weak as he was for one of the giant folk and therefore not much valued by them, was blood brother to one of the most renown fighters in the enemy’s ranks; one whose reputation carried the highest number of slain Jötuns than any other. On the other side of the same coin, there were very few among the Æsir who viewed Loki’s true heritage with anything less than suspicion, often only thinly veiled hostility. 

Loki made no never mind about such prejudices. After all, _hewere_ so blindly trusted by others. 

The city was situated on a small outreach of land, which was saved from the designation of ‘island’ by the slenderest of land bridges. In years of high water or during fierce storms the bridge would disappear entirely, and the city became island in truth for a time. The arrangement made defense of the city and the central seat of power a much stronger proposition. When combined with the high wall that encircled it completely and the Bifrost at its step, Asgard made a considerable challenge when on the defense. 

Being restricted in how far they could sprawl did not necessarily stop the city from growing. Babies were born, room had to be made. With nowhere else to go, the people of Asgard’s capitol built _up_.

The streets along which Thor and Loki walked were near to Valaskjálf, which loomed up above all, and here the buildings were restricted to three stories. Further away, structures reached as high six or seven complete floors, turning the streets and allies between into shadow filled gorges. At midday the sun could reach the streets of these places directly, but the rest of the day was always half-lit, much as on an overcast day. But it never felt confining, save those times when too many took to the streets at once, nor gloomy to walk through the city. Construction had been clever and well thought out so that Asgard was a place of pride and wonder, not congestion and confusion. Trees grew in the streets, well cared for and healthy. High above the ground sturdy and graceful bridges spanned between buildings on opposing sides of the street, connecting neighbors and creating an almost web pattern throughout the city.

As the brothers walked, closer and closer to Valaskjálf, the depth of the street away from the sky lessened, their path brightened, and the beauties of their city increased without the sheer height of the buildings around to distract from them. 

Thor began his line of talking lightly. “What was it drew you to Midgard this time, Loki, an irresistible prank, a tour of alehouses, a pretty face?”

“All and more, dear brother. The Realm of humans, primitive though it is, is never wanting in its diversions. You should come with me next time.” He glanced at him from the corners of his eyes, gauging. “I’m sure there’s one or two that would suit to distract you from your worries at home.”

“I have no worries at home,” he replied quickly. 

“Remember who it is you speak to when you choose to tell tales.”

“Because you are my brother or because you are the master of lies yourself?”

“I’m shocked at such an insinuation from you, Thor!”

The big man shook his head, a familiar look of amused vexation spread over his features. “You seek to distract me, which you only do when there is something you wish to keep concealed. What was it you found in Midgard that so struck your fancy?”

Again Loki’s look sharpened on his brother curiously, he weighed his words carefully. “Why such interest in my travels? Tis not often that you are so persistent in your inquiries, or so curious about what I do. No, normally you want to know as _little_ as possible so that only I can be brought to task for them.”

A look passed over Thor’s face, a shadow of those clouds that he called to being so often. He looked troubled, conflicted. He turned away, and Loki had the strong impression that he did so to see who was near enough to overhear them. When he turned back his brow was furrowed. He shook his head. “No reason, brother,” he said, the taste of lies heavy in his words. “I was merely curious.”

Loki considered calling Thor out on his falsehood, on pressing the line that he so abruptly wished to abandon, but decided against it. Thor was not the quickest-witted of men, but he was not stupid. If he decided that it was unsafe to discuss Loki’s movements out in the open, then there was sure to be a good reason for it. Besides which, he had a fairly good notion what it was that Thor had been tip-toing around. If he were right in that assumption and simply speaking about it was enough to generate alarm and caution, then Loki had some inquiries to make of his own, elsewhere. 

“Well, if your idle fancy is so easily blown off its course, let me venture mine: What news of our ever noble home? Have we any imminent wars brewing since I have been away, any conspiracies or stirrings from our neighboring Realms?”

Thor shook his head. “None more than can be expected on any other day. Your clever skills and my hammer will not be called in to play for some time.”

“A pity,” Loki commented, eyes drawn for a moment to a small gathering of city folk, all gossiping and laughing together, oblivious to their surroundings. His fingertips tingled. How simple it would be to make that small knot of gossipers so much more interesting. “Though truly, we can never be said to be _unneeded_. There will always be difficulties that require the Trickster’s touch, just as there will always be giants to slay.”

They passed by the knot of people, Loki controlling his urges, though he did make note of the faces and was careful to remember all that he had overheard. Fun could be had later if not now. Absorbed enough was he that he missed the questioning glance Thor sent him for his last comment.

“If not war or strife, is there nothing taking place worth a Prince’s knowledge?” He looked back at Thor, his green-and-black eyes flashing. “No scandals, no rumors, no suspicious pregnancies?”

Thor’s lips twisted, making his beard bristle. “If there are, then they have not come to my ears. I do not have the patience to skulk and listen to maid’s talk as you do.”

“Again, it is a pity. You learn more from them then you do from our good father’s advisors on any given day. Perhaps I should advise the advisors of the usefulness of listening to maid’s chatter,” he added thoughtfully. 

“The only event that is new since your absence,” Thor went on, hoping to distract him, “is a feast planned some months from now. Much of the Court is to come, including our parents and ourselves.”

This did catch Loki’s interest. Feasts in and of themselves were not necessarily anything of import, but those being hosted by any other than his father and still being able to boast having the Crown Family at table were worth some examination. It usually meant someone or some family was trying to make a good impression on Odin, which in its turn could mean that they wanted to curry favor for some future request. All of _this_ was of interest to Loki. Anything to do with the maneuverings and machinations of the Court was of interest to Loki. He had some considerable pride for his store of knowledge on the various Æsir that orbited the throne, their public faces, their half veiled motivations, and their secrets. Most especially their secrets. He collected them like a rook collected baubles, and his hoard was the largest to be found. How else could he be expected to maneuver so well himself, or to know from which direction to expect the wind to blow next, or where precisely to push at the structure to make it all wobble so well?

“And who it is hosts such a gracious feast?”

At the question Thor laughed. “Has my very clever brother grown so dull in his romp with the humans that he has forgotten already?” He looked at Loki, light blue eyes dancing with mirth. “So you do not remember that we are forever to dine at Ægir’s hall, now he has the cauldron that Týr and I fetched him?”

Loki allowed a grimace to cross his face. “Ah, that one. I have not forgotten, but to ‘forever dine’ at his stained boards means to feast with him twice in a year’s span, such as we have already done. This comes all out of season. Why has the briny lout invited us now?”

Thor shrugged, still grinning wide, white teeth flashing in the sun. “He says he has mastered some new brew he wishes to share with us. You should have seen him, brother. You recall how solemn-faced he always is, I do not think I have ever seen a man so torn between gravity and proud grins as I have when Ægir came to issue the invitation. Our father saw this, too, and accepted – for everyone he invited.”

“How very kind of Odin to speak for all,” Loki said, completely straight faced. “Who, then, will be attending this very special feast?”

Thor’s gaze went far away as he began to list off names. “Our father and mother, you and I and Sif, Bragi and Iðunn, Njord and Skaði, Frey and Freyja, Byggvir and Beyla, Týr and Vidar…” Beyond these names, Thor carried on for some time, listing off minor dignitaries and courtiers that were all meant to come before Loki waved him into silence. 

“Enough, I say, enough. Once we get to the accounting of which dog boys are to be there, the accounts are altogether too thorough.” Privately, Loki made a mental note to find that exact information, purely for his own edification. One never knew. “Does our brave gatekeeper not come to the drunkard’s ball?”

“Heimdall? No, he does not.”

Loki nodded, satisfied. “Small mercies.”

The comment earned him a pained look. “Why do you hate him so?”

“You may well ask him that same question, brother,” Loki said easily.

He considered, as he had many times before, the possibility of telling Thor exactly why it was that Heimdall hated him, where came the deep seated animosity that kept him only barely civil to the youngest Prince of the Realm, when in every other respect he was perhaps the _most_ loyal to Asgard of any of its subjects. Explaining that it was _because_ Heimdall was so loyal that he resented the orphan Prince, the mismatch of his blood and his position, and how he resented his own position as gatekeeper when he had to continually allow Loki across the bridge when he had sworn to keep creatures such as he out… No. As he had every time before, he chose not to lay bare the guard’s inner struggles, his divided loyalty and instinct. Not yet. There would be another time better suited to such revelations. 

Besides which, to lay so much of Heimdall open for Thor to see would naturally lead to much of the same for Heimdall’s sister, Sif. Loki rather doubted his brother was ready to know so much of his good friend and brother-in-law _and_ his wife. Not all at once, at least.

Later. Later, later, later. 

“So is it Ægir’s feast that father wishes to speak of to me?”

His brother’s silence took on a particular quality that made Loki look over at him. His broad face was screwed up in a look of consternation, and he wouldn’t meet Loki’s eyes when he said, “No, brother, I do not think that it is.” Thor looked distinctly uncomfortable as he said it, as though he wanted to say that yes, what their father had to say was simple and had to do with the drinking of brew and feasting and reveling, rather than something else. 

Loki’s instincts sang to life at Thor’s recalcitrance. This, it said, was something to do with what he had been saying before, when he had so uncharacteristically cautious. This had something to do with Loki’s time in Midgard.

Odin wanted to know about his time in Midgard.

To his own surprise, Loki found he was grateful for Thor’s earlier caution. Though he could only guess at why his brother would feel the need for it, if his suspicion of Odin’s interest proved right, then he would have as much if not more desire for silence. 

Feigning spoiled disinterest, Loki shrugged, waving a hand. “Well, no doubt the old man will tell me when I stand before him. No doubt it is nothing of any great importance, no more than Ægir’s feast at least. He just wants to make a spectacle of speaking to his rebellious son; you know how much he enjoys grandstanding.”

It was all true, and Thor knew it well enough, but he still gave him a worried look. “If he does wish to see you to deliver some admonishment, Loki, then you would do well to heed his words. I know you have had your quarrels,” he said, forestalling the counter he could see balanced on the tip of Loki’s tongue. “But brother, think: he is the _Allfather_. He possesses a knowledge and wisdom that exceeds all but the Norns themselves. He knows as no other father could what it is his sons endure, what they must be ready to face, what is best for them. And he is _our_ father, Loki. He cares for you.”

Silence fell between the brothers as they continued their slow, meandering walk. Loki did as he was bidden and considered Thor’s words carefully.

In themselves they were very true. Odin the Allfather was as wise as it was possible for any being to be. Everyone knew this, knew where it was that such wisdom had come from and what he had sacrificed to gain it, and naturally deferred to his counsel. Such wisdom paired with the old man’s surprising ferocity was what made him the leader of the hot-blooded Æsir, and his shrewdness kept him there. 

Loki knew perhaps better than anyone what it was that Odin’s ‘wisdom’ really was, how it functioned. 

Odin knew well all that had been or was to come. This was what he had bargained for at the Well of Urd, and the knowledge echoed and re-echoed inside his aged skull. Some days the echoes of what was to come were so loud that he was lost to the present, his single eye growing dull and distant as he looked into a future that was more real to him than what stood before him in the moment. In those times he was more like an old, wandering man than any other, but rather than being lost in the memories of his past, he was lost in the future memories of entire worlds. 

Had not Loki seen this for himself dozens of times, and been called to apply his own agile mind to assist in untangling the knotted cords of fate that had twisted together in his mind?

Oh yes, Loki knew that Odin was as wise and knowledgeable as even the wildest tales could tell. But there was more. There was a second truth behind the first, one that he had come to suspect in assisting his father through the worst of his befuddled fits, and which he had since confirmed with the help of one other whose powers of sight could be said to rival those of Odin. Loki alone was aware of this truth, what it meant, and with this one many more truths came to be known to him. 

More baubles for his rook’s nest. 

They came into the shadow of Valaskjálf, and Loki gazed upon it. The sight always filled him with conflict. This was his home, his comfort, his bastion; it was also his prison, his leash, his geas. Inside those walls waited a twisted labyrinth of motive, intent and hidden agendas, all lying out to tangle him up, hopeless and helpless. Or, if he were clever enough, he could manipulate them until he was the last player able to move, the spider in the center of it all. 

Staring up at the grand structure, its towers and arching alcoves glinting in the sun with inlaid metals, Loki murmured to Thor, still standing beside him. “Father gave his eye to acquire knowledge at the Well of Urd. They say with a single eye he sees more than any other of the Realm. But do not forget, brother, even with such powers, he is still half-blind.”

High above them, a black bird wheeled in the sky.

* * *

In the end Loki decided not to enter Valaskjálf’s halls just yet. To enter would mean to don the mantle of an at least moderately obedient son and Prince, to adopt all of the inherent rules and responsibilities, and there was at least one task he had to attend to that would be hindered by such checks. Not many would say that Loki followed more than a nominal level of responsibility as a Prince of the Realm – one of the many presumed reasons for his elder brother being the clear favorite of the Crown – but even he would feel the added burden once he stepped over the threshold. To even move about the city with a reasonable amount of privacy would be too great a presumption.

Loki valued his privacy at all times, but would settle for the time being if it only lasted long enough for this one task. As soon as he entered Valaskjálf _all_ would know of his return. More than enough were already aware. 

He left his brother at the gates of their father’s Hall and continued on, intentionally losing himself in the city for some time before bothering to guide his feet. 

Loki sought a particular individual. One who, due to his rank and birth, could have spent every one of his days in ease within Odin’s halls, but for his own reasons declined the honor. Much like Loki, he preferred to not feel the weight and fetters of Court life about, though his reasons differed from those of the Prince. And unlike the Prince, he was welcome to take his freedom as often as he wished it. In theory he was a beloved of the Court, he and his brother together, but in recent years his name was forgotten more than not, his presence become an awkward discomfort that none could fully lay aside. So he took himself into the city, to the wilderness, or to other Realms entirely, where his person caused no anxiety and he could breathe without fetters. 

Such a wandering habit might have made it difficult for Loki to locate him, but the man had some routines that he held to with a grip of iron. It had taken some time, but Loki had learned those routines and used the knowledge to his advantage. 

Once thoroughly lost, Loki found himself, and then found his way to what passed as the ‘low’ part of the city. 

The low parts of Asgard were, ironically, those which were built the highest. Here was where the homes and businesses of the city’s citizens attempted to rival that of Valaskjálf in terms of height. They could never quite manage, of course, but standing in a narrow street with buildings over six stories high on either side left one feeling smaller than one would expect. 

Using magic to guise himself – he had no desire to be recognized as the Trickster Prince – Loki went about the city as a redheaded youth in a faded blue _kyrtill_ and patched leggings, the pouches at his belt hanging limply. The first alehouse he visited did not house the one he sought, so he moved along to the next, and the next after that. He was fortunate in that on only the third attempt he spotted his quarry, sitting alone in a corner, drinking from a simple wooden cup, eyes facing outward over the rest of the hall’s milling patrons.

Loki grinned to himself, ordered a full cup of the house’s ale, and began to slowly circle his way to the solitary man. 

The alehouse was full of patrons, many standing since no chairs or benches remained, and all trying to speak over the top of their neighbors. They jostled and shouted and laughed, men and women alike, a few children running between the legs of the adults and adding to the general chaos. None noticed the slip of an adolescent threading his way through them all, cradling a cup and eyes fixed on the one man who seemed content to sit apart and silent. 

It took some time, but Loki arrived at the corner table. He was sure he had not been spotted, either by his prey or by anyone else as anything more than a lad in worn clothing. He was within reach of the man, at his left side and as near to behind him as the corner and table would allow. 

The man who was his target was dark of hair and beard, both reasonably close cropped but showing signs of being allowed to grow a little wild. His clothes, his _kyrtill_ , leggings, boots, leg wraps and cloak were all stained and dusty, and his air betrayed an almost animal watchfulness. Loki, who knew the man’s habits, thought it obvious that he had just returned from one of his hunting trips in the thick forests that surrounded Asgard. A longer glance confirmed his supposition – a large leather bag, his bow and arrows all lay near at hand. 

Moving casually, Loki angled his body to free his right hand. He was close enough that he could strike with his dagger and slay the man where he sat. He could do it easily, and he knew he had yet to be detected… but the distance was just enough that some other set of eyes might catch him in the act and raise an alarm. To maintain his anonymity he would have to edge a little closer, so they were so close that none would see the knife pass between their bodies before it passed _into_ his. 

Loki shifted closer, as though to avoid the wide gesticulations of the man beside him, his hand slipping beneath his short cloak to take hold of the hilt of his dagger--

“Hello, Loki.”

The voice was soft, quiet, lost to all save Loki. He paused, his hand frozen, fingers a hair’s breadth from the dagger hilt. When he turned it was not with the stormy expression of a foiled assassin, but with a grin that was matched by the man who had been his prey. 

“Höðr!” he called, his voice lighter than normal to match his young disguise. “You are returned from your hunt!”

Höðr smiled easily, turning his head towards Loki. His eyes, when they came around, did not focus on him. Both of them were a ghostly, silverfish white. Höðr was completely blind. It was not a condition he had been born with, nor was he elderly. To anyone who looked, the cause of his disability was plain: thick tendrils of white scars branched away from his eyes like crow’s feet and bridged over his nose. On his left side the white trail curved upward in a sweep and whitened a wide swath of his dark hair to snowy paleness. Höðr was a bowman, one of the finest to be found in his youth, and had been too slow with a sword when an enemy had come to close quarters with him. 

No longer the warrior he had once been, Höðr now spent his hours keeping his own company. 

While one could expect his history to leave him morose, Loki never found him so. He grinned wide in Loki’s direction, sightless eyes shining knowingly. “If I am just returned, then so are you, Prince. Midgard, was it?”

“How is it you found me out, my friend?” he asked once he was settled. “I could swear I made no more noise than a mouse.”

Höðr held up a finger as he often did when he was about to expound some wisdom. He was not older than Loki, but he liked to play that he was. “But even mice are not silent. They have footfalls that a hunter might hear if he listens closely. And you have very distinctive footfalls.”

The Prince rolled his eyes, making a _tsking_ noise with his tongue purely for Höðr’s benefit. “Then there is no need to ask how it was that you knew it was I that made it to your side so stealthily. My talents are wasted on you, Höðr.”

“I thought your voice a little too fresh for such a disreputable rogue.” He smirked, tilting his head. “Have you made yourself to be a beautiful slip of a lass just for me?”

Leaning across the table so his mouth was close to the hunter’s ear, Loki dipped his voice low. “Always just for you, but an even more beautiful slip of a _lad_.”

“Shameless,” Höðr laughed, not at all taken aback by Loki’s nearness or the revelation of his guise. The two of them had been friends long enough to play at this game often. Höðr had never been much shocked by Loki’s brazen attitude, and time had served to make him even less so, as well as confident that any advances were made in fun and any rejection of them not like to cause any rift or retribution. 

Rearranging himself across the table so he was half sprawled, half sitting, Loki took a long pull of his ale. It was far from the fine mead of Odin’s halls, but was good ale all the same, neither weak nor watered down. He savored the warmth of it as he swallowed, allowing himself to enjoy a moment full of nothing but the present before he had to turn, once again, to the future and the long game of politics that life as an Asgardian Prince had inured him to.

“Tell me,” he said, his eyes scanning the room. “What else have you caught with those sharp ears of yours, my friend? Anything of interest to a shameless, flirtatious sneak such as myself?”

Höðr scoffed and motioned around them to the room he could not see. “What could I have heard in a din such as this?”

“Do not mock one who has made such a pastime his art, Höðr.” He lowered his voice, sure that he would still be able to catch the words when his lips were not beside his ear. “Even without your sight, are you not still the most skilled of huntsmen? I have seen you pick out the beating heart of a mouse and send your arrow true to silence it. Amid this ‘din’ you can pick out a single set of footfalls and know from who they come. You may hear whatever you wish, if you but put your mind to it.”

Höðr shrugged, having enough self-awareness to look mildly uncomfortable when his skill with bow and arrow, still as sharp as in the days when he had been whole, were mentioned. Out of any of the Æsir or the Court, Loki alone who knew just how little Höðr’s blindness had affected his skill. All knew that he often went out with a bow and full quiver, but only Loki had followed him into the green. Only Loki had accompanied him, unseen and entirely unheard, and witnessed for himself what a formidable huntsman he remained, what a skilled warrior he still could be if he were only given his place in the ranks. It was probably due to that one day of tailing him into the wilderness that made him learn the sound of Loki’s steps so thoroughly, so he might never be so taken off his guard again. 

“Sharp or no,” he said placidly, “my ears cannot pick out that which is not there. Nothing of import have I heard.”

The taste of lies crossed Loki’s lip again. He shrugged though Höðr could not see. “Then entertain me with trivialities. I am home and have only mind numbing functions and brutish feasts to populate my days to come. Fill my head with the ridiculous if that is all you have to offer, it will not be wasted.”

The huntsman sighed a long-suffering sigh, as though he were an old man forced to oversee a difficult child that was not even his own. “Well,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “if it is the ridiculous you seek, then my ears have picked up a word that comes by again and again, almost as though there were some closeness attached to it: Ragnarök.”

He all but whispered the word, conscious of the press of people on all sides, of the discomfort that would ripple outward at that disruptive pebble.

Loki snorted derisively. “Since the world began idle tongues have wagged about the day it will end.”

Höðr nodded, the worried look not quite leaving him. “I know this as well as you, and would give such chatter no more thought than the quaking fears of the weak hearted. Such talk is always about in some corner or other. But the talk has spread, becoming louder with each day. Tis not the way of such talk to increase with time.”

This was true enough, Loki reflected. The specter of Ragnarök was a looming shadow on the future’s horizon that none could quite forget; always there, a part of the future that Odin and the Norns saw so clearly. A day when Yggdrasil would burn, the sun grow dark, and all save a pitiful handful would fall before a great enemy. It was a part of everyone, this knowledge, unshakable. Yet it hardly trespassed upon one’s daily life. One could hardly function if all they concerned themselves with was when the worlds would end.

Just look at Heimdall.

Most accepted the end as it was seen by the Allfather and thought no more of it. There were occasional resurgences of the anxiety surrounding Ragnarök when weak hearts and idle tongues combined, but always it died down before the idlers could whip themselves into a frenzy. This case could likely be traced to the long stretch of peace Asgard had enjoyed, perhaps too long a stretch; it gave people’s imaginations free reign to wander. Loki said as much to Höðr, who seemed to consider it.

“Perhaps,” he conceded eventually. “I can think of no other explanation why such talk would surge now. I hope that you are right in your assessment.”

When Loki asked him what he meant by that, Höðr demurred, refusing to cite any particular reason why _he_ would be concerned over idle speculation. 

“What else have you heard, then, beat of my heart?”

Höðr’s lips twisted a little at the overly affectionate title. He grew thoughtful. “Perhaps it is nothing at all, but other words have reached me, and they fit the category of ridiculous very well. There is word that Mímir spoke. He spoke aloud his seeing speech and one was there to hear, but twas not the Allfather.”

“Mayhap twas you, darling one. You have taken his charming habit of twisting your tongue into riddles.”

“Artful mocker, you are one to speak so,” Höðr commented drily. “It is a rumor that persists, though it is but minor. Someone has spoken to the bodiless one and gleaned his wisdom without Odin’s leave.”

That would be a difficult feat to achieve indeed. Mímir was one of the few whose sight could be said to match that of the Allfather’s, and as such the old spear topper and his riddle-laden visions were guarded jealously. Mímir was hidden away inside Valaskjálf, in his father’s private rooms, behind doors bolted with clever locks and cleverer spells. It would take someone cunning, determined, and more than a little brain addled to attempt it. Not to mention, they would have to have a _very_ good reason to tempt Odin’s wrath. No idle question would justify such a risk. 

Loki shook away his musings, and continued to prod Höðr for more that he had heard. He was a quiet man, much given to simply listening to what went on around him, and Loki was determined to pick the wheat from the chaff of all he had heard in the few weeks since they had last shared words. 

There was very little the blind huntsman could offer up beside what he had already told. There were some tales of the lower ranks at Court tangling themselves in self-made drama, one or two that might lead to minor scandals – Loki noted these for later, they might prove interesting. There were also some amusing anecdotes involving the patrons that surrounded them, which were nothing of import but which _were_ entertaining. Loki drank until his cup ran dry once, twice, three times before he was satisfied that Höðr had told everything that he would. Not all that he _knew_ , perhaps, but all that he would tell. It was enough for now. 

Loki was standing to his feet, being sure to sway as a slight-framed youth he appeared to be would sway after three full cups, a warm flush splashed across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, when Höðr cleared his throat. It was a very particular clearing of the throat that had him stop and squint back at his friend blearily. 

Höðr motioned for him to come closer, which Loki did, wondering how it was that Höðr knew that he was looking in the right direction to see him beckon. 

He came close, still swaying, and lay a hand on the huntsman’s arm to let him know he was close and to look as though he were steadying himself on the bigger man. When Loki thought he was near enough, Höðr surprised him by leaning even closer, pulling the Prince by his shoulder until his lips brushed his ear. 

“Have a care for yourself in Valaskjálf,” he breathed, barely audible though Loki could feel his breath. “There are whispers, whispers that say the Trickster Prince had found himself some new trinket in his travels in Midgard. Some new _bauble_ to make him more to be feared than trusted.” Höðr paused, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh of Loki’s shoulder. “Step lightly, my Prince. Know you well that not all hold you dear. Fear and rumor will work against you, even if there is no truth to either.”

* * *

Loki strode through the vaulted halls of his home. He was nearly to the door of his private chambers and had yet to meet more than an occasional servant or the standing guards stationed at regular intervals. News of his return had doubtless reached those to whom it would mean anything, but no one hindered his progress. Whatever it was Odin wished to see him about, it did not require his immediate presence. 

He was grateful. Höðr’s warning and the pain of fingers digging into his shoulder was fresh in his mind. He needed a little time to think, to reassess before he faced the Allfather.

The chambers of his mother and father were directly attached to the courtyards of the Royal Wing, those of Thor and Sif just adjacent, and Loki’s rooms the farthest away. This was proper as his station of second Prince, and ordinarily it annoyed him. Not owing to of any supposed honor in being nearest the shaded gardens, but because the distance from the outside made it just that little bit more difficult to make discreet exits and entrances. If he felt the urge to escape for a night of solitude, for example, to avoid having to light foot his way through practically all of Valaskjálf, then he would have to creep past the door of Thor and Sif, then Odin and Frigg. The same difficulties were presented when returning. 

Just now he found he preferred this arrangement. When using the main gate, if he were given that ‘honorable’ chamber at the extreme end of the Royal Wing, then he would be passing those doors _as well_ as the rest of a wakeful Hall. 

Once within his rooms he bolted the door behind him – a superficial protection – then waved the flat of his hand over it, murmuring a quick, musical spell. It was one of his personal designs, meant to act as a light physical barrier against intrusion, but more as a heavy shield against magical methods of spying and a sophisticated alarm for the same. Anyone attempting to breach his door by force would find a very obvious magical reinforcement that would present moderate difficulty in breaking, while anyone trying to look in on him from afar would likely be repelled by the same barrier before they were even aware it was there. The spell was designed in such a way that should anyone break through it by stronger magic, then Loki would be instantly aware of it. Should he happen to be in the middle of anything he would rather prying eyes _not_ see, he could modify his behavior accordingly. The only one whose sight it would not block was Heimdall’s, whom Loki had long ago decided would make a fuss if he found his view blocked. 

A more sophisticated charm was required to befuddle _his_ vision. 

Loki leaned against the heavy oak door and sighed, running a hand through the red hair of his boyish guise. As his fingers carded through his hair darkened, smoothed down, and became his own again. He rid himself of the rest of his guise as he would rid himself of a set of clothes, stepping out of one flesh into the much more comfortable skin of his everyday self. 

Within moments he stood as himself, casting his eyes over the chaotic mess of his private sanctuary. 

His chambers were like any other of the Royal Wing, consisting of three large rooms all connected to each other. The first was the largest, meant for relaxation and the entertaining of guests. Quite often Frigg would entertain Ladies of the Court, or hold less formal but still very official councils. Thor often used his for loud gatherings of his fellow warriors, parties which Loki had no trouble hearing even through thick stone walls. 

Loki, not one for large groups of people in his private quarters, utilized the space by converting it into a workshop. Here was where he studied his arcane arts, wove together new spells, experimented with mixtures and devices. Tables, bookshelves and cupboards cluttered the space, which were in turn each cluttered with the tomes, tools and materials of his craft. It was a glorious, chaotic creative mess that provided him hours upon hours of peace, and which his mother despaired of. It was not the practice of magic which she disapproved of, but his haphazard methods. She had long since abandoned any attempt to train more methodical approaches into her son. 

Beyond this first chamber lay two more, one a comparatively small all-purpose room, which could be used as a bath, a meal nook or a library depending on the occupant’s taste – Loki used his as a catch-all for those supplies he was not using at the moment. The other was a cozy bedchamber. 

The chaos here was not nearly so pronounced as in the main room. Here the spread of Loki’s belongings was restricted mainly to tomes and sheaves of parchment, quills and inkwells, his provisions for reading and note taking. There might have been clothes strewn about, but Loki was disorganized, not dirty. Clothing and armor were stored in their proper places, out of sight. 

He closed the bedroom door behind him and with a lazy twitch of his fingers his hearth came to gently glowing life. It was the one magic he had never had to study and which so many others struggled with; an affinity with flame. Since his childhood it had come easily to Loki, to call heat from the cold. Now it gave him mellow light and just enough warmth to chase off the lingering chill in the stones. The windows he kept covered and shuttered, closing out the darkening world for a time. 

Loki stripped away his clothes, piling them all neatly into a basket for the laundry maids until he stood only in his linen undershirt. He stretched luxuriously and lay down in the blankets, furs and pillows of his bed. He let his breathing slow and his muscles slacken, his mind lulled by the play of shadows over wall and tapestry, his bed feeling ever so soft beneath him, soothing him towards sleep…

Almost as though he were muttering nonsense in half-sleep, Loki spoke a very specific sequence of words into the air. Nothing seemed to change. He remained still a few moments longer, making certain that the charm was doing what it was intended to do. Then he sat up. 

For an instant there was a feeling of duality, disorientation, and then everything settled. He, Loki, was sitting up in bed, legs hanging over the edge and eyes drawn to the fire, while another Loki, a shadow-charm Loki still lay in the furs, breathing slowly and evenly, eyes closed. 

This was the final magic he had designed to fool Heimdall’s gaze. His sight was limited, but he could see within Valaskjálf easily enough, and he was not above doing just that to keep tabs on those who lived within. He certainly never hesitated to do so with Loki, and with him just returned from Midgard he would be even more watchful; especially if he were aware of the rumors that had Höðr so alarmed.

Loki frowned into the flickering embers, the first time he allowed anything more sober than mock-concern show on his face in weeks. Better to hide behind the grin, show nothing but confidence and a devil-may-care attitude. It always left others unbalanced, uncertain. Behind locked doors and magical walls, he could let the final disguise fall away. His brows came low over his black and gemstone eyes as he considered all he had heard since his return. 

He hadn’t expected the details of his Midgardian visit to be so generally known. He wasn’t sure just how detailed the details were, but… They said he possessed a trinket from the human world, something that was powerful, that could make him dangerous. Something that came to be known to his brother, which made him and Höðr both fear for him. Something that his father wanted to speak with him about, ‘as early as could be arranged.’

There was no doubt in Loki’s mind that it was his journey to Midgard that Odin wanted to discuss; he only wondered _how much_ the Allfather knew. Did he know all, or only a portion? Did he know of the village, of the blacksmith that resided there? Had he heard the prayer, that desperate, clawing plea for life that had drawn Loki there? Did he know the deal that had been struck, the nature of the ‘trinket’ he had secretly brought back, or the true treasure he had gained because of it?

If he did know, then did he know _why_ Loki had done all this?

He rubbed at his temples with long fingers. This was why he hated coming home, always the feints within feints, the careful maneuvering, trying to guess where one’s opponent would be three moves ahead. Like a game of _tafl_ with men and women as the pieces, chance and fate the tumbling dice. 

Confident that Heimdall, who was sure to be at his usual spying, would only see his shadow-self sleeping peacefully, Loki settled beside the hearth. 

The flames, flickering liquidly beneath the surface of the coals, worked to hypnotize him with their tranquil dance. His affinity with the flames ran deep, he could feel it down to his marrow. The tiny, infant flames at his fingertips called out for him to release them, allow them to burn and consume and rage, confined no more to their prison of hearth and stone. That primal desire was echoed in him, who also desired the ultimate freedoms, but in who still lay the structures of restraint. Loki could check himself, did every day, from succumbing to that desire that ate away at his bones. He was the fire, but he was more than the fire, more than the need to consume and destroy. 

It was important to remember that. It would be so easy to forget, to give in, but he must not. He must remember: he was _more_.

Loki plunged his hands into the glowing coals, digging beneath the ashes, beneath the grate, to the little trap door beneath it all that lay flush with the stones, but only when the hearth was alive with flame. If anyone were to look when the hearth was cold, they would find nothing. Only when it was lit would this hidden little door even exist, its small compartment open for who came through the flames. 

Deftly his fingers pried open the door, fished inside the compartment and lifted out the little box of wrought silver and iron. Loki lifted it to his eye and examined it. Such a little thing to already be causing so much fuss, when really, he ought to be the only one who knew of its existence. And yet he had been given, in the few hours since his return, every reason to be glad he had snuck the ironmonger’s heart back here, had hidden it within its iron bound box beneath the flickering embers. 

The box trembled in Loki’s hands, the heart within still beating out its steady rhythm, the rhythm of the forge. Loki had thought only of finding a place where none would find the box when he had picked the hearth, where none but he _could_ find it even if they knew where it was. But it seemed-- it _felt_ as though the ironmonger’s heart appreciated its hiding place, so near the fire.

Perhaps he ought not to be surprised at that. The ironmonger had given so much of himself to the forge and all it contained, to anvil and hammer and molten metal, it ought to be no shock that his heart was already one with the fire by the time Loki reached him. 

It was interesting, and made the task of reading that same heart all the easier; the heart that was one with the flames and the god who _was_ the flames. 

Hearts were complex things, though they appeared simple. They loved, they hated, and they could be swayed by a word or hold staunchly for years to a single principle, unmovable though the world came down all around them. They could remember the slightest of crimes or forgive the gravest. They were things that seemed so easily influenced, that could be broken and torn and somehow come back together again. 

The very heart that Loki cradled in his fingers, it had been shot with an arrow. A scrape, it was true, but enough to kill, and still it beat on as though the wound were a mere inconvenience. He wondered, feeling the strength of it through the metal box, how long it would have survived even without his help?

He shook his head at his own wandering thoughts. No, it could not have survived long. The ironmonger was strong, but he was a mortal man, and would not have lived much beyond his blood-choked prayer. 

His heart had been broken before the arrow had rent it open, broken and then patched together again with rage and pride. Not a good combination, but it worked well enough to continue beating. In the ironmonger’s heart, Loki could detect the bitter aftertaste of sorrow – the man’s childhood, bound up with memories of his mother – the ache of resentment – the Great Smith, his father, and the expectations the two of them had for each other – and the acidic taste of hatred – the ironmonger’s continuing need to best his father at his craft, to become the name that was known to all, whatever the method.

It was all more or less as Loki expected to find, though perhaps felt more deeply than he had thought. With the heart back in his hands and time to truly _feel_ it, more came to him. 

Doubt lingered in this heart. Not doubt in his abilities, at least not _all_ of it, but doubt in his self. The ironmonger doubted who he was, what he did and why. He set himself to task and yet, privately, he questioned his own motivations. Intrigued, Loki delved deeper. 

He found hatred, and thought for a moment that it was more of the same that he had found before, that which was aimed at the Great Smith. But no, this was hatred aimed at _himself_ , accompanying the doubt. Loki paused, puzzled, and nudged this twisted knot. He had met the ironmonger, and he wasn’t sure he would credit the man with self-hate. Yet here it lay, in his heart where Loki could see. But though he had found it, it would not uncoil itself when he tried to persuade it to. There were secrets this heart still guarded, and would not give up for the asking. Smiling to himself, Loki accepted the check and backed away. He owned this heart, after all. Eventually all of its secrets would be his. He had plenty of time to wait. 

Leaving the doubt and the hate behind, Loki went deeper to find the expected third of a familiar triad – fear. Where the first two came the third was sure to put in an appearance. When he looked, Loki was not disappointed. 

Fear lay before him, in all of its predictable forms. Fear of failure, fear of death, all of the myriad fears of a human being of incredibly limited lifespan. 

Two particular fears stuck out to Loki: the fear of loss, and the fear of the unknown. These were both common in Midgardians, but they were unexpectedly sharp and stark amid all the rest. It took a moment for Loki’s internal vision to shift, for the landscape of the ironmonger’s inner workings to come into clear enough focus for Loki to realize what he was sensing. 

These were new fears, ones that the ironmonger was experiencing _at that moment_.

Loki narrowed his focus, trying to determine form where these fears came. Without much surprise he felt that the unknown, at least part of it, was Loki himself. Deep in his heart, the ironmonger feared the god that had saved him, which was quite a sensible view to take for a human. The rest of the fear was aimed internally, towards the ironmonger. The ironmonger considered a part of himself unknown, and was afraid of it.

The god frowned, decided to leave this mystery for later, to turn his focus to the fear of loss, so new it must have reared up within the last few days…

Loki froze before the hearth, fingers around the box tightening.

He had to return to Midgard. He had not planned to for some weeks or months, but that had to change. He had to go to Midgard, to Askival. 

He had to go _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn everyone there would be a lot of lore, right?
> 
> Skywalker: This is actually one of Loki’s many alternate names, so we get the fun of a flying Loki. :)
> 
> Bifrost, Asgard: We’re going for a mixture of myth and Marvel - as we may have noticed - and this includes how everything looks and is set up in Asgard. 
> 
> Valaskjálf: This is one of three of Odin’s halls from mythology, the other two being Gladsheim and Valhalla. Out of the three, Valaskjálf seemed to fit the Marvel image the best. If the Marvel version has a proper name, I was unable to find it.
> 
> Discworld: No, not Pratchett’s Discworld. In the Marvel-verse, this is how Asgard appears. It works.
> 
> Heimdall: His powers are more in line with the mythology, his appearance with Marvel, and his set up in Asgard with myth, such as with Gjall and Himinbjorg. Also, it’s worth noting that in the mythology, it’s Heimdall who’s seen as Loki’s greatest adversary, not Thor.
> 
> Sif: Another mix. She’s a warrior as she is in Marvel, but married to Thor as she is in myth. Sif’s hair comes from a specific myth where Loki cut it all off, then to placate her and Thor had to go to Svartálfaheimr to get her a replacement. This adventure led to a few things, including the forging and winning of Thor’s hammer and Loki getting his mouth sewn shut. For those among you who are the investigative type, the shoring of Sif’s hair should give you a small clue as to Loki and Sif’s relationship. Beyond the antagonistic.
> 
> Heimdall & Sif: In Marvel they’re brother and sister - which is interesting considering the films - but not in myth. They are here because shenanigans.
> 
> Rooks collecting baubles: This is a myth, more commonly known as crows or ravens collecting and hoarding shiny objects. They actually don’t, but the myth is common. (Rooks are corvids, just like crows, ravens and jackdaws.)
> 
> Ægir: From Wikipedia: ‘Ægir is a sea giant, god of the ocean and king of the sea creatures in Norse mythology. He is also known for hosting elaborate parties for the gods.’ Those familiar with myth should have an idea where things are going with the invitation to dine at his hall.
> 
> Odin, Thor & Loki: In Marvel, Odin is father to both, with Loki being adopted - and unknown to be in the films until discovered. In myth, Odin is still Thor’s father, but Loki is Odin’s brother - by blood binding. As tempting as it was to go myth, we’re going with Marvel.
> 
> Höðr: Little is known about this god in mythology, and I’m familiar with him in the Marvel-verse, so this particular rendition is entirely my own, using cues taken from mythology. He is brother to Baldr.
> 
> Redheaded Loki: A redheaded Loki is closer to the myth version… and I added him because I have a weakness for redheads. Call it fan service for the author.
> 
> Ale & mead: Mead is a wine made from honey, and not usually available to ‘the masses.’ Ale was a much more common drink, usually made from barley, which even children were known to drink daily.
> 
> Wooden cup: Yes, drinking from horns is a more recognized image, but once again reserved for more formal occasions and/or high ranking individuals. Cups and bowls were more common, and much more likely to find in a alehouse.
> 
> Ragnarök: The Norse end of days. It’s quite detailed and badass, I recommend Googling it. In this story the basics are known to everyone, the specifics to a mere handful. Who comprises this handful is a secret.
> 
> Mímir: This is an Æsir who was given in trade to the Vanir (along with Honir in exchange for Njord, Frey and Freya). The Vanir eventually decided that they were tricked into a raw deal, decapitated Mímir and sent the head back to Odin. Odin brought it back to life and speech, and now it acts as a council to Odin, knowing many truths unknown to others.
> 
> Loki’s element: In Marvel - especially fanon - Loki’s element is ice, him being a frost giant and all. In myth he is typically associated with fire. There’s a little debate whether this is historically accurate or not, but even if he wasn’t associated with fire then, he certainly is by modern Heathens. So what are we doing here? We’re going to try for both.
> 
> Tafl: A game dating as far back as the 4th century, with many more modern variants. The exact rules are unknown, but its simplest to think of it as a kind of chess with dice. (Again, Google for more info.)
> 
> Names: Some names I have down in the anglicized forms, others not. This comes down to personal tastes on my part. For a while I had Odin down as ‘Óðinn,’ but decided against it.
> 
> Where is ANTHONY?: Plenty of Loki, now where is Anthony? …we’ll see him next chapter. We’ll see Anthony and Loki both, interacting in the next chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you, everyone, for reading. See you in the next chapter!**


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